


Where the Lilac Still Grows

by clefairytea



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: (Like REALLY aged up), (Like REALLY established), Aged up characters, Aging, Established Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23611783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clefairytea/pseuds/clefairytea
Summary: “So. There’s also something else I wanted to talk to you both about – well, all of the family do, really,” the Joxling said. “We’d love you to come to the wedding. But um…”She trailed off. Both men stared at her blankly. Oh dear. She had been rather hoping they would connect the dots themselves, but it seemed that wasn’t going to be happening.“Well,” she said. “It’s just. It is on the mainland. And we think it might be…difficult for you to get back.”There was a wary glint in Moominmorfar’s eyes, and he pressed his ears back against his skull. Before he could say anything, however, Snufkinmorfar interrupted:“Now what would make you say that? Is there a squall on the way?”“No, no, it’s just…” she said, swallowing. “You’re both getting on in years, and the journey isn’t easy. And – you know. We worry about you out here by yourselves.”“Worry about us?” said Snufkinmorfar with a careless laugh. “We’re your grandparents. I believe we’re meant to be doing the worrying.”---The year is 2016, and Snufkin and Moomintroll return to the Valley for the first time in a long while.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 79
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's me again! Blame [@herb-acious](https://herb-acious.tumblr.com/) for this, he got me thinking about old Snufkin and Moomintroll and it spiralled out of control. I am...not sure if this is a fic anyone will want but it was fun.
> 
> So anyway, three parter, about 25k total! Will edit the next two bits and probably update it slowly over the next week or so. This is book!verse specifically, rather than MV19 or anime. Consider it an extremely far ahead fan-sequel to November, in a way.
> 
> Content warnings for grief/mourning, past character death (they're both like 80 in this, you do the maths), general discussion of death, mentions of alcohol use/drunkenness, implied homophobia.

The Joxling did not often visit her grandfathers. It was not just that the boat trip to Harusaari (which Moominmorfar insisted upon calling Moominvalley) had to be sailed alone, with no regular connections from the mainland. Nor was it that Snufkinmorfar smoked like a chimney, despite all her mother’s urging that he quit at his grand old age. It was not even that she disliked them – she was actually very fond! They were a delightful pair of old men, and she appreciated how difficult their lives had been.

It was just that they were, well…they were terribly _old-fashioned_. Snufkinmorfar did not like that she was a joxter who lived in a house, for one, which was just so out-dated. It was 2016, for goodness sakes! There were precious few travelling joxter communities left in this world. And besides, a joxter could live in a house if they wanted, and be no less of a joxter for it, in her opinion.

Still, family was family. And Moominmorfar (having discovered the internet and taken to it surprisingly well) had sounded so excited about her visit and assured her that Snufkinmorfar was equally looking forward to it. She didn’t have the heart to let the old dear down. Even if she wished he wouldn’t comment on _all_ of her posts.

So, the Joxling rented a little mahogany boat, grateful her mother had taught her to sail as a wee kitten, insisting the skill was useful even amidst her adolescent grumbling. Taking care to bind her tail around her waist, she sailed the frothing sea to Harusaari, where her grandfathers’ house stood pale and blue among the grey skerry. Even on a mild summer day, her arms ached and she was damp with brine and her tongue was thick with sea-salt

She tied the boat to the dock (build by Moominmorfar’s own paws, but sagging a little these days), unbound her tail, and walked up through the tall wheatgrass and around the rocks. It was beyond her how the two old fellows were managing these days. she and her cousins and uncles and aunts rather suspected they _weren’t_. There was a lot of anxious discussion on what should be done to cope with that.

Of course, she – who had been born on the 13th day under very unlucky stars – was the one who had to talk to them about it.

It was a brisk morning when she reached the cottage, a funny approximation of the traditional stove pipe shape moomins were known for. Her mother had said that her great-grandparents had lived in a true moominhouse – a tower painted blue, shaped just like a stovepipe, with rooms for everyone who visited and everyone who lived there alike! The thought was a bit funny, these days, when old moominhouses were only in old films and storybooks.

Moominmorfar was on the veranda when she arrived, his glasses almost sliding off the end of his long snout, sitting before his easel and squinting at it, paintbrush clutched in his paw.

She gave low whistle – the kind that just said ‘Don’t mean to interrupt, but don’t want to just wait around either’. He looked up and his ears bounced up, and he tossed his brush and palette aside.

“Joxling!” he cried. Grabbing his cane, he hobbled to meet her at the edge of the veranda and caught her in a tight, paint-scented hug. 

“Hi, Grandpa,” she said, smiling despite herself. “Where’s Pop-pop?”

Moominmorfar waved a paw dismissively.

“The lump’s still in bed. We foraged for mushrooms yesterday and he complained the whole time he was stiff and tired. He’ll be up when he’s up,” he said, and then bustled her in. “Come in, I think we should have some of the cake I baked yesterday, and – oh! You’re a tea drinker, aren’t you, dear? Was it real tea or the odd green stuff you liked? I can’t keep track of who drinks what…”

The Joxling let her grandfather fuss, as was his nature, and looked about the living room. It was much the same as the last time she visited. There was the patterned rug under the coffee table, the one that Snufkinmorfar insisted was magicked to fly (even though she and her cousins had experimented with it thoroughly and found no proof of the matter). The wood carvings on the mantlepiece, shaped like woodies, panthers, seagulls, and one (mostly bafflingly) like a top hat. Snufkinmorfar made them – she had her own from one of her birthdays. There was Moominmorfar’s paintings, which he shamelessly displayed all throughout the small house. And of course, that horrid old green hat, hanging on a nail near the door. Every visit, she and the other grandchildren swore they would swipe it and burn it, but none were brave enough to risk Snufkimorfar’s wrath should they do so.

She sat on the couch, sinking into the old cushions, as Moominmorfar thrust a small china plate bearing a grainy slice of Victoria sponge into one paw, and then a chipped mug full of much-too-milky tea in the other (she hadn’t the heart to tell him she took it black, nor the energy to try and yet again explain what ‘gluten-free’ meant).

“Is Pop-pop okay?” she asked, frowning. She always remembered Snufkinmorfar being a morning person. They went on holidays as children where he would be banging about at the crack of dawn, making coffee and eggs long before anyone else stirred. Of course, despite making enough racket to wake the dead, he would get himself into a huff if you got up and interrupted his solitude. Anyone with sense would stay in their sleeping bag until he had his morning tobacco.

“Oh, he’s fine. Likes a lie-in these days,” replied Moominmorfar briskly. “What about you, dearie? Are you still doing that thing with computers?”

The Joxling steeled herself for explaining what programming was (again) when there was a great thumping from upstairs. She looked up at the creaking staircase to see her other grandfather, in his usual odd green smock, with the patterned trim around the hems and the pale patches at the elbows. The fur on his nose was greyer than when she had last seen him, turning white and wispy at the tip.

“We have a guest, apparently!” he greeted, and then looked at Moominmorfar. “What’s the point of living on the desert island if we still get guests, I ask you.”

“Hi Pop-pop,” she said, grinning.

“Hullo, little beast. Mind your tail – your grandfather caught his on the sofa last night. Clearly it has an appetite for tails,” he said, making Joxling snigger and Moominmorfar shake his head. Smirking at his own joke, he went to put on a pot of coffee.

“Is your hip still sore?” asked Moominmorfar, trying to steer Snufkinmorfar away from the pot and onto a chair.

“Nothing a bit of coffee and porridge won’t fix!” he said cheerfully. “If that fails, it’s a full moon soon – I’ll eat mulberries and swim under it and be right as rain.”

Snufkinmorfar clearly had no plan to take a seat and allow himself to be fussed over, so Moominmorfar retreated to the couch, giving Joxling a despairing look. Joxling grinned. Her Pop-pop was only ever grumpy or silly, and never anywhere in between. It looked as though she’d caught him on a good day. A rare moment of good luck for one as luckless as her.

“Joxling, is your mother with you?” shouted Snufkinmorfar, dribbling copious amounts of honey onto his porridge.

“No, she’s working today,” she said. Snufkinmorfar snorted at that – he had certain opinions about jobs. He insisted he’d lived his entire life without having a single one, but Joxling didn’t know how that could possibly be true. She knew Moominmorfar’s paintings served them well after a certain point, but it hadn’t always been the case.

“Well, that’s okay, we’re delighted to see you either way,” said Moominmorfar consolingly. Snufkinmorfar settled into his preferred chair (hand-carved, wooden, and unbelievably uncomfortable), and scooped porridge into his mouth.

“Don’t humour her, Moomintroll, it’s clear the little beast is here for something,” interrupted Snufkinmorfar, jabbing his spoon in his direction before settling his gaze on his granddaughter. “Well then, little one, what is it?”

“Er, well it’s not _for_ something, it’s just to _tell_ you something,” she said, and then produced a small piece of paper from within her coat. “You see, I’m getting married.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” said Moominmorfar, taking the little paper and peering at it through his spectacles.

“Stopped dragging his heels, did he?” said Snufkinmorfar, banging his spoon against his bowl. “Good for him! Is this on the mainland?”

“Yes, it’s in a week –“

“Why, couldn’t you have posted it? It’s quite a trip to make for a silly slip of paper,” said Moominmorfar.

“The postal carriers don’t come this far out,” she said, laughing.

Moominmorfar looked at her very seriously.

“Did you know,” he said solemnly, “that you can send these things by computers now?”

“Well yes, but –“

“And you can make them look just as nice as this you know!” he continued, gesturing at the invitation. “Some of them are even _animated_.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, as though he was imparting some kind of sacred knowledge.

“They’re called _e-cards_.”

“Yes,” she said, biting back a laugh. “I know but –“

“What was that silly one Snorkmaiden sent us, with the dancing Fillyjonk?” he asked, looking at Snufkinmorfar.

“You shouldn’t open those things,” replied Snufkinmorfar, taking a sip of coffee. “They can watch you through that wretched computer of yours, you know.”

“Who’re they?” asked Moominmorfar.

“The same they’ve always been,” he replied mysteriously.

Joxling felt as though this conversation was sliding out of her control a little bit. She cleared her throat and put down her cup, returning their attention to her.

“So. There’s also something else I wanted to talk to you both about – well, all of the family do, really,” the Joxling said. “We’d love you to come to the wedding. But um…”

She trailed off. Both men stared at her blankly. Oh dear. She had been rather hoping they would connect the dots themselves, but it seemed that wasn’t going to be happening.

She coughed and took a sip of her tea, trying not to grimace at the taste.

“Well,” she said. “It’s just. It is on the mainland. And we think it might be…difficult for you to get back.”

There was a wary glint in Moominmorfar’s eyes, and he pressed his ears back against his skull. Before he could say anything, however, Snufkinmorfar interrupted:

“Now what would make you say that? Is there a squall on the way?”

“No, no, it’s just…” she said, swallowing. “You’re both getting on in years, and the journey isn’t easy. And – you know. We worry about you out here by yourselves.”

“Worry about us?” said Snufkinmorfar with a careless laugh. “We’re your grandparents. I believe we’re meant to be doing the worrying.”

“Just – we all think it might be good for you to move to the mainland, close to the rest of us!” she said, before either of them could say anything else, suddenly feeling as though the fur of her paws were dense with sweat. “We – we could build you a house, out of the way, but we could all still get there by car, and it would be close to the doctor’s –“

“Quacks,” muttered Snufkinmorfar, his expression darkening with every one of the Joxling’s words. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. And he had woken in such a light and silly mood. Perhaps it would have been easier if he was grumpy. Curse her unlucky stars. Why had she gotten so carried away and proposed – she should have known it would have landed this on her plate!

“I didn’t think we were finding things so hard…” said Moominmorfar quietly, although he did not sound terribly convinced. Snufkinmorfar snorted.

“I’m as well as I’ve ever been,” he said.

“Well, when was the last time you _left_ the island?” she said, a bit desperately. There was a fisherman who brought them supplies, and she and the other grandchildren took turns checking up. As far as any of them knew, the two of them hadn’t made a trip off it for quite a few years now.

“I travel every winter,” he replied, fishing his pipe out of his coat pocket and knocking the tobacco out directly onto the coffee table. “I just haven’t for – well, a little while.”

“A long while, really,” muttered Moominmorfar, earning a dirty look. He cleared his throat and stood to pick up their plates, cups and bowls.

“I mean, I could sail you back with me, and you could try living at the place we built, you know, see how you settle in,” she said, chattering so fast she barely noticed what she said. The second she did, though, she slapped her paws over her mouth. Oh, curse her unlucky stars. She had really not meant to tell them that they had built it _already_.

They both stared at her, Moominmorfar’s ears pressed back and Snufkinmorfar’s eyebrows raised.

“Er. It’s just a little bungalow,” she said, and then came up with a quick lie. “It’s our summer home, really. But we don’t use it much.”

“Well,” said Moominmorfar, voice very careful. “It’s something to think about, that’s for certain.”

Snufkinmorfar stood, grunting as he did so, his paw almost going to his hip.

“I’m going to fish. We’ll need more than mushrooms for dinner, with company,” he said.

The Joxling stared after him, a bit lost. Moominmorfar rested a paw on her shoulder.

“Do stay the night, dearie. It is a difficult journey back.”

****

An odd day passed in Moominvalley. Snufkin had some success fishing, his hip twinging here and there, but nothing so terrible the Joxling needed to be so _fussy_ about it. He deboned and descaled it with his back to Joxling as Moomintroll fried mushrooms and made his delicious sauce, and Joxling wrung her paws and looked like a wide-eyed kitten. She’d always been a neurotic one. The first to hide in Snufkin’s coat as a bairn if there was a thunderstorm, even when her cousins were dashing out into the soaking rain to chase lightning spirits.

They ate with no more mention of the morning’s conversation, Joxling trying to explain her ‘job’ (writing things for computers, as far as Snufkin could tell), talking about the hemulen lad she was marrying (they had yet to meet the boy, and Snufkin wondered if that was intentional) and explaining how the rest of the family was faring (well, if with the usual amount of chaos).

After evening whiskey was drunk and they polished off the last of Moomintroll’s bread-and-butter pudding (the only dish he made that Snufkin would dare saw was even better than Mamma’s), they solemnly retreated for the night. Joxling shuffled off to the guest bedroom, bundled in an old night gown much too wide yet not near long enough for her.

Snufkin had kicked off his boots and coat and tossed his belt to the other side of the room and slunk under the covers, pressing his cheek to the scratchy embroidery of Moomintroll’s spare pillow. He felt the mattress shift as Moomintroll sunk in next to him, unwinding the chain of his glasses form around his neck and putting them carefully on his night table. He turned out the lamp and lay down, the two of them listening, as they always did, to the stead hiss and roar of the sea around them, feeling the island breathing beneath the cottage.

“What did you think of what Joxling said this morning?” asked Moomintroll suddenly.

Snufkin turned around, looking to see Moomintroll lying on his back, paws resting casually on the swell of his stomach.

“She said a lot of things. Always been prone to chatter,” he said. Moomintroll sighed and tugged on his tail.

“Oh, you know!” he said crossly. “Don’t be obtuse; you’re too old to be mysterious.”

“I think she’s worrying about nothing,” said Snufkin, with utmost confidence. “We still tend the island, just as we did when we first moved here, don’t we? I still fish and walk every day. You can’t want to move to the mainland and be fussed over like a pair of invalids.”

Moomintroll made a face, telling him very clearly that he did not want to do anything of the sort. And yet.

“I’m sure you could scare off anyone fussing,” he said, “but you know, there’s no shame in wanting things to be a bit easier.”

“Things being easy would bore us senseless,” he replied, tucking his paws under the pillow. “You worse than anyone else. You can’t even hibernate – you’re awake the worst and bleakest days of the year, and you _enjoy_ it. Adventurer’s spirit, that’s what you’ve got, make no mistake.”

Moomintroll’s eyes crinkled into a grin at that, face turning pink. The blanket shifted where his tail was wagging.

“Well, it’s always splendid to have something new. And wouldn’t moving be something new, again?” he said.

“We should move to an even more remote island, if it’s new you want,” he said. “Somewhere these wretched grandchildren can’t find us.”

Moomintroll snorted.

“You would sulk like a milly old souse if they didn’t visit, and you know it,” he replied. “She might have a point, you know.”

“Does she?”

“We might not get back,” said Moomintroll, playing with the hem of Snufkin’s sleeve. “We’re old, you know.”

“Hardly.”

“You’d say eighty is young, then?” he replied, and then gave an enormous yawn. “Oh, it’s too late for such conversations.”

“Too late is the exact right time for such conversations,” said Snufkin, but Moomintroll’s eyes were already closed, breathing slowing. Snufkin yawned and blinked himself, his body aching for rest even if he himself was not quite ready for it.

“We’re going to the wedding though, I suppose?” he asked instead.

“Of course,” came the sleepy reply, followed by a lazy slap on his side. “Now shush, you. Let an old man sleep.”

Snufkin turned on his side, knowing too well there was no talking to a moomin truly determined to sleep. Thought the net curtains, he could see the yellow triangle of his tent, still pitched on one of the few even patches of ground on the island, surrounded by Moomintroll’s vegetable patch.

Tonight, he thought, as he did every night, would be the last night he spent in a house. Tomorrow, he would return to his tent and unroll his sleeping mat and sleep under the stars. It just happened that tonight was a little cold, and he was a little sore, and perhaps Moomintroll needed the company.

Tomorrow night, he promised himself.

*****

Harusaari used to simply be their ‘summer island’. This was before they began calling it Moominvalley, before what had once been Moominvalley had been lost, tugged away by a tide of changing names and roaring cars and endless, endless new inventions and modernisations. It has simply been where they went at the end of spring, after Snufkin had returned to Moominvalley. They would spend the first weeks there, and then they would pack and load themselves (and, eventually, the children) onto the boat, and take off across the sea. The cottage didn’t exist yet – there was only a few old shacks, and a few places to pitch tents.

Summer would be spent on Harusaari, with days out across the sea, fishing or exploring, but often just walking the skerry, exploring the rock pools and all the strange and wonderful things their fierce and strange little island had to offer them. Harusaari did not strike out at them, nor did she cradle them. Instead, it was almost as though she saw them as an interesting challenge, like a chess player who finally saw a worthy opponent sit opposite her.

As the temperature started to drop, and the autumn chill began to rip the leaves from the trees, the boat would against be packed. They would return to Moominvalley, where Mamma, now very grey, would be waiting for them in old Moominhouse. Snufkin would cut the grass for his tent once more, and spend a few weeks there in peace and quiet, until the wind urged him south.

For a while, that had been enough.

****

Snufkin was the first to wake, spending the morning smoking out on the front step. He hadn’t slept particularly well the previous night – strange dreams, about old Novembers and islands being swallowed by the sea. Joxling, as was her nature, was last to rise, complaining of sore arms and legs from her sailing trip the previous day.

It was fish for breakfast, with rice and a mild soup made of the leftover mushrooms and the last of the miso paste their eldest has bought them. Joxling was a fair cook, although she said she mostly had microwave meals at home, to Snufkin’s great disapproval. They ate outside, Joxling settled on the grass and Moomintroll bringing out a few comfortable pillows.

“I suppose you’ll be heading home today, dearie?” asked Moomintroll, thrusting a plate of biscuits under Joxling’s nose until she accepted one. “With only a week left, you must have a lot to do.”

“Pah, you all do too much for weddings these days,” said Snufkin, laying on his back in the grass, taking his pipe out from between his teeth. “My father said joxters would just find the nearest keep out sign, light it on fire, and jump over that together, and that was the job done.”

“Don’t listen to him. Your great-grandfather talked even more rubbish than he does,” said Moomintroll. “Hm. I think I have some rice cakes somewhere, if you’d like those…you’re very skinny, dear.”

“No, no, Grandpa, I’m full, please,” she pleaded. Snufkin smiled behind his paw – Moomintroll would undoubtedly be stuffing her pockets with scones and biscuits before she left. The old troll was perpetually convinced that everyone around him was starving to death.

Really. It was a bit rich of Moomintroll to say Snufkin was becoming more like his father, when his resemblance to Moominmamma got stronger by the day.

“Will you two be coming back with me?” asked Joxling, nibbling at the corner of the rice cake forced into her paws. Snufkin and Moomintroll looked at each other, Moomintroll flicking his ears in a ‘Well?’ and Snufkin raising in his eyebrows in a ‘If we must we must’.

“I suppose it makes the most sense, doesn’t it?” said Moomintroll fairly.

“We’ll be coming back though,” said Snufkin sharply, because he didn’t see why not. They were perfectly capable of sailing the same old route from the mainland to Harusaari. They’d done it twice a year every year for a good forty years. Just because they’d kept to the island for a little while didn’t mean they _couldn’t_ leave if they wanted to. They’d done more sailing and travelling on their own feet than any of their grandchildren had in their entire lives.

Joxling didn’t say anything to that, just continued gnawing on her rice cake.

“Well then!” said Moomintroll, and stood over Snufkin, paws on his knees. “On your feet, you old dishrag. You’re going to help me pack.”

****

It took no time at all to pack – even as long as it had been since he’d been on an adventure, Snufkin was always an expert packer. They swept up the essentials and bundled them into their rucksacks - toothbrushes and clothes and favourite snacks and other such important things. It was fine weather for sailing – brisk and even, not a cloud in the sky. The gulls were shrieking and cawing, swooping down to eat the last of the bread Moomintroll left out for them.

They tied the Joxling’s rented boat to their own (Lonesome Wolf, if you asked Snufkin. Literally anything else, if you asked Moomintroll), and loaded on their few possessions. Joxling was already at the helm, checking something on her phone (one had to stand rather at the edge of the dock to get any signal).

It was an unseasonably cold day yet again, so Snufkin bundled himself in his favourite shawl and jumper, along with his usual green coat. It had been a while since he’d walked to the old dock – his favourite walking route on the island took him the other way around. It needed repairs, still. He thought Moomintroll had gotten around it at some point. He supposed it didn’t matter a great deal.

Moomintroll had packed his easels and paints and a few canvases, which Snufkin thought a bit unnecessary for just a couple of weeks on the mainland. Yet he did paint an awful lot, and probably would want to do one for the happy couple, if his hints about wedding presents the previous evening had been any indication.

Snufkin sat and polished his mouth-organ, trying to think of a good sailing song to play for the journey, when he saw Moomintroll had turned away, his pack over his shoulder, staring at their little cottage with an odd expression on his face. Snufkin would say he didn’t recognise it, but he rather did – from one particular moment, and it made his stomach drop.

“Moomintroll?” he said quietly.

Quickly, he was smiling again, stepping onto the boat.

“Sorry, sorry! Got distracted for a minute there,” he said, dropping his bag down. “Anchors aweigh! Snuf, you’ll play, won’t you? Won’t be a sailing trip without your playing.”

“As long as someone doesn’t put me on the internet this time,” he said, with a dark glance at the Joxling. She grinned, unrepentant, and put her phone in her pocket, showing her empty paws.

Well, he trusted her as far as he could throw her, but Moomintroll was right. It wouldn’t be a sailing trip without a sailing song.

The Joxling was a competent sailor for someone her age. She all but refused to let Snufkin assist, and Moomintroll was basically herded to sit down as well. Snufkin didn’t mind watching the helm and playing, and Moomintroll was happy enough with his sketchbook. It was a few hours peacefully coasting the waves until they saw the mainland, less green than Snufkin remembered it, but the jagged line of the Lonely Mountains in the distance was familiar enough, though. That, at least, could hardly be changed.

The town was bright and noisy when they arrived, the morning commuters bustling in their busy way, the fisherman shouting at each other at the wharf, paying little heed to the tiny pair of boats that slipped between them.

Snufkin and Moomintroll exchanged a look. They remembered when this beach was all bare – when a little moomin, snork and snufkin could wander up and down the length for hours at a time, undisturbed but for the odd antlion nestled under the sand. Now it was like every inch was taken up with people on beach towels, little shops selling trinkets and fish and chips, signs telling one not to swim, or to litter, that there would be fines if a sign was destroyed. Joxling seemed to pay it no heed, but Snufkin's fur was standing on end.

Moomintroll touched the back of his paw, very gently and briefly, for there was an awful lot of people about, and a few looking at them as they stepped out onto the sand. Snufkin settled down. No use making a fuss. At least not until nightfall, at the very least.

Snufkin helped Moomintroll up onto the pier, and then began to drag up their things.

“Would you like any help, sir?” offered a young lad, breaking away from his volleyball game (although he did seem to keep one eye on the pretty mymble girls nearby).

“Perfectly capable,” grunted Snufkin. Moomintroll nudged him.

“We’re fine, thank you,” said the Joxling, going a bit pink in the face, whiskers twitching. The boy looked briefly stunned, but then laughed and sauntered back off towards his friends. Snufkin glared at his retreating back, becoming more irritated at the mymble girls’ giggling.

“Honestly, I’ve got two working arms, don’t I?” complained Snufkin. “Nosy parker.”

Moomintroll only regarded him with a fond amusement that did not help in the least.

“I think someone needs lunch,” he said.

He was about to argue that he did _not_ need lunch, he needed complete strangers to stop acting as though he was made of glass, when his stomach let out an enormous rumble.

“Fish?” suggested the Joxling, tilting her head.

Not even Snufkin could maintain a bad mood at that.

****

Snufkin insisted upon the same fish shop they’d visited when the children were young, much to Joxling’s dismay. Snufkin didn’t see the point of eating fish with all the bones and interesting bits taken out. Battered cod was all very nice, but nothing quite compared to fried vendace. They ate, Snufkin in cheerful quiet as he walked by the waves, Moomintroll chatting amiably with Joxling behind him. There was a short kerfuffle as Joxling grabbed Moomintroll’s arm to stop him feeding his leftover chips to the gulls (a fine for feeding birds! Snufkin had never heard anything so ludicrous!).

Joxling insisted on taking them for ice cream afterwards, at some little faux-retro parlour that promised to have 50 different flavours. It sounded as though that couldn’t possibly be true, but to Snufkin’s great surprise, it seemed to be the case. Moomintroll, a bit overwhelmed and shy at the fuss the servers behind the counter were making, opted for a single scoop of strawberry in a cone. Snufkin, after he’d counted all the boxes and confirmed there were _indeed_ 50 flavours available, took so long weighing his options that Joxling interrupted (“ _Pop-pop!_ There’s a _queue_!”). Rushed into his order, he ended up with a brightly coloured stack of three scoops. None of the three looked like a colour one should eat, and he hadn’t the faintest clue what they were meant to be. Biting down on the top scoop, however, he found he didn’t mind at all. They were tasty all the same.

Joxling, complaining of sore feet, insisted they take the tram. Perfectly absurd, if this little cottage was really only at the foot of the Lonely Mountains. It would be a simple few hours walk from the beach, unless the Valley had changed shape since the last time Snufkin visited. Yet Joxling insisted they not walk so far – she didn’t even want to walk all the way along the beach and back.

“Oh, the trams are always jolly good fun anyway,” said Moomintroll, looking quite excited. The novelty of them had never quite worn off for him. Snufkin supposed it was better than a car. They sat and twisted around to look out of the window, enjoying the last glimpse of the sea before it disappeared behind the long row of pastel houses. 

It was hard to remember this was the same valley they’d grown up in, sometimes. Aside from the mountains, it was wholly different. Much of the old forests were gone, replaced with rows of awful, identical houses, what little remaining growing naturally fenced into parks and gardens. Of course, Snufkin had travelled a great deal – he knew there were places much bleaker, where there was even less left of the natural landscape. In fact, he knew that most people considered the place beautiful.

Still, he didn’t much like it.

As the tram rumbled past a long stretch of lilac bushes, Moomintroll twisted back around and gave Snufkin’s paw a quick squeeze, his fingers still sticky from the ice cream. Glancing quickly about, Snufkin squeezed back.

****

Snufkin had never made a deliberate decision to begin sleeping indoors. Not consistent, at least. Oh, of course, there had always been a night here and there where Snufkin would slink in through the window and settle himself into Moomintroll’s side. That had went on, oh, more or less since they both returned to the Valley for the first time after that long, odd November. And there had been nights sharing tents, on the road or on the island. Yet nothing consistent. It was always borrowed space, never _his._ He would always steal back to his tent eventually, stretched out under the yellow canvas, watching the shadow of branches and leaves shake in the wind.

Nowadays he did not only have a bed, but a side of the bed. He had his book by the nightstand, his glass of water waiting by the lamp, still smudged with his paw-prints from the night before. His slippers tossed carelessly into his corner of the room, and his jumper slung over the wicker chair. An entire unmoving corner of the world that was his own. And it had happened so slowly that he had hardly noticed it happening at all.

His tent was always there, after all. It sat on the lawn as it always had, ready to be slung in a pack and taken on the road. But the fact of the matter was there was always something – a sore back, a late night, a sip of whiskey too many – and he would say tomorrow night, tomorrow night I will go back to my tent. He would settle onto his side of the bed, muttering quietly to Moomintroll about plans for the morning or complaints about the day, and would fall asleep before he even quite decided to.

It was hard to say when it became so consistent, really.

But Snufkin would guess it was around the time they planted the lilac bushes.

****

Snufkin has been pleased to learn that after the tram stop, there was still a way to walk until they reached the little bungalow. This far from the main town, the roads had vanished into crumbling dirt paths, bearing only the occasional muddy countryside car. Everything was grown over as it was supposed to be, and here and then Snufkin saw the tell-tale press of deer hooves in the grass. The bleach scent of the too-clean pier and smog of the roads was gone, replaced with the thick must of the open countryside. The strangers, too, were gone. The only people he could see was the Joxling, walking ahead and glancing over her shoulder, and his Moomintroll, steadily walking beside him, his cane occasionally sinking into the mud.

“Do you need to rest?” asked Snufkin, because this _was_ a steep hill.

“Oh, no, no! I’m quite well,” replied Moomintroll. “How’s your hip?”

“Much better for the walk,” he replied, wishing Moomintroll would stop asking after the dratted thing already. He considered doing a somersault just to prove the point, when Joxling shouted back at them.

“We’re here!” she said, turning around and helping Moomintroll the rest of the way (Snufkin turned his nose up at her paw).

They crested the hill, finding themselves rather far up indeed. One could see the river winding its way through the Valley. If Snufkin strained his ears and went very still, he could hear the waterfall rushing afar as well.

Nestled at the foot of the mountain was a squat little house, painted lemon yellow. There were a few skeletal rose bushes in front, looking as though they either weren’t tended to, or were tended to by someone who didn’t particularly know what they were doing. It was not a particularly impressive little bungalow, and Snufkin couldn’t see why the Joxling and her family would use it as a getaway when his and Moomintroll’s splendid little island was right there.

“It’s very nice,” said Moomintroll approvingly. “Did you build it yourself?”

“Oh, well, no. We had it commissioned,” replied the Joxling, looking a bit embarrassed. Moomintroll and Snufkin exchanged a look – Snufkin reproachful, Moomintroll wiggling his ears in a ‘Don’t start!’ sort of gesture. Honestly. Snufkin didn’t think much of houses, but he did rather think they should be built with one’s own two paws. He supposed young people didn’t really learn those sorts of skills any more, not when every skill was bought and sold so easily.

“How’s the walk? It wasn’t too tough, was it?” said the Joxling, tail whipping back and forth anxiously.

“It’s a little steep, but still very nice,” said Moomintroll firmly. Joxling smiled, looking somewhat relieved, and unlocked the front door. Inside was much like the out – a little dusty but pleasant in the bland, unlived-in way that relatively untouched space were. There was a little kitchenette with a shiny green kettle on the hob. The wooden dining table was small, just enough space for two place settings, and the chairs looked satisfyingly well-worn. Stacked on top of a squat book-case was a little television set, opposite a squishy yellow sofa, a knitted blanket slung over the arm.

“The bedroom’s here, there’s only the one, but the sofa pulls out…” explained the Joxling, opening a door to a small room with a bed, piled high with patterned quilts and knitted blankets. She pointed them to the bathroom next, trying to explain to them that the bathtub had _settings_ (what by the Booble’s name a bathtub needed to do other than fill with water was beyond Snufkin).

The Joxling was going into a great deal of detail about the bungalow, explaining just about where every single electrical socket was. It was rather a great deal of detail to go into for a little place they were only borrowing for a few nights. Moomintroll stood and nodded carefully, looking about two seconds from taking notes on the matter.

Snufkin wasn’t much interested in the wi-fi code or what the baffling array of television remotes was for. Leaving Moomintroll and Joxling to it, he wandered out the back door. There was a little garden out back, overgrown with dandelions. Past the garden fence was the long path winding upwards into the Lonely Mountains. A herring gull stood on the garden fence, eyeing him, head tilted and black eyes gleaming.

He didn’t much like the thought of setting up his tent in a fenced garden. If he had the energy, he would rip the fence out and turn the whole lot to kindling. He went back inside, where Joxling was showing Moomintroll something on her phone. He peeked into the bedroom. It was not much like their own on the island, with the big window overgrown with ivy, where the seagulls came to roost and peck at the food Moomintroll left out for them. It was like the sort of bedroom one saw in a catalogue – much too clean and tidy, everything matching as though it was all bought at once, rather than accumulated as one’s things were meant to.

A prickling went up and down Snufkin’s arms. He went back out into the front garden, grabbing his pack with his tent as he went.

Tonight, he thought, tonight I will sleep out in my tent.

****

“Pop-pop, I'm going to sort things out at the hotel tomorrow morning, so I'm –“ said Joxling as she emerged from the front door. She stopped and stared at him, mouth curling into a frown.

Snufkin had pulled up the garden fence (or made a start – it was surprisingly tiring, so he really only gathered a small amount), and made a fire out by his tent.

She paused, looking at him with a paw on her hip.

“You can’t be serious.”

He frowned at her, prodding the fire with a stick.

“Can’t be serious about what? You didn’t want that fence, did you?” he said, and shuddered. “Fenced gardens are dreadful things; you shouldn’t even humour them.”

Joxling pulled her paw down her face, as though she had a headache coming on.

“No, just – are you sleeping out here?”

“Of course! Splendid brisk night for it,” he said.

“You’ll be cold,” she said, in that irritating tone young people took when they thought you were being very silly indeed. Snufkin only grunted. Any further response would make her argue more, so sometimes it was best to be quiet about things.

One thing young people rarely understood was that sometimes the less one said, the less others asked.

She sighed, clearly giving up on him.

“I have to catch the last tram back. I showed Moominmorfar where the hotel is, and what time you need to be there.”

“Hotel?” asked Snufkin, bewildered.

“For the wedding.”

“In a hotel?” he replied, shaking his head and putting his pipe between his teeth. “Hosting a wedding inside is a peculiar way to go about things. I suppose that will be a hemulic tradition?”

“Well, yeah, but his family actually wanted us to have it at a registry, and do all the paperwork together,” she admitted, scratching the fur around her ears. “We compromised.”

Hemulen traditions were quite beyond him. He’d been lucky enough o never have to attend any of their parties. He’d hear they were terribly dry affairs, great deal of speech-making and etiquette and telling people which fork to eat what with. If he was honest, he wasn’t much looking forward to seeing what they considered a wedding.

Of course, if Joxling was happy she was happy, that was the main thing. Snufkin was willing to bet her fiance’s family wouldn’t be thrilled with matters, though. Would be even less thrilled when they saw her grandfathers.

“Other family members are arriving over the next couple of days too!” said Joxling brightly. “You two should try and see everyone. Check the town out a bit. It’s nice, you know.”

“We saw the town,” he said, waving a paw dismissively.

“There’s a lot of it,” she said, laughing.

“Too much, really.”

“Alright, alright, Grandpa Grumble,” she said. Snufkin stiffened. She seemed not to notice, rewinding her scarf around her neck and shivering. “If you’re serious about sleeping out here, you should take some of the extra blankets from inside. We left loads.”

“Yes, yes, now be off, pest,” he said, wiggling the stick at her. “You know you should give a snufkin space when he’s smoking his pipe.”

She shook her head, mouth curling.

“Alright. G’night, Pop-pop.”

****

Moominhouses are not passed down among families. Quite the opposite, in fact. A Moomin out on his (traditionally – moomins used to be rather patriarchal) own course was to build his own house. When nobody lived there any more, the children did not inherit it. They tore it down. Brick by brick, floorboard by floordboard, until everything was as it was when that first moomin found it.

When Moominhouse finally lay empty, they followed tradition. Slowly, working together, they took apart the old house, reducing it to firewood and scrap metal. Bits and pieces – like tea pots or plates – were boxed up and passed onto whoever was interested. The garden was left to overgrow. That was not tradition, but they both instinctively felt it was what Moominmamma would have wanted.

After the house was torn down, leaving nothing behind – because moomins do not use gravestones either – Moomintroll had stood and stared at that vast empty hill for a long time.

Tradition dictated they leave it as it is – as though Mamma and Pappa had never lived there, as though there hadn’t been an entire childhood spent out in the Valley.

Snufkin didn’t put much stock in tradition.

So he put his paw on Moomintroll’s arm, and said the very first thing that came to mind:

“Let’s plant something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is the poor Joxling for basically the entirety of this fic.](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/e5/25/e0/e525e046fe15b18f4983e56ed82f3bbd.jpg)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really long one! Sorry about that. Hope you enjoy anyway!
> 
> Just some quick warnings. We get more into the grief/death elements of the story here, implications of fantastical racism/homophobia, mentions of hospitalisation and sickness, and alcohol use. And ageism because yeah. I swear it's not as relentlessly grim as this makes it sound.

Snufkin had a dreadful night’s sleep. He had perhaps not set his tent up as well as he should, not secured it properly against the cold breeze. Or perhaps it was where he pitched it – the ground seemed hard and uncomfortable against his back, no matter how he lay. Whatever the reason, he barely slept at all, either cold or damp or sore.

The worst was the herring gull. It cried out all night, long cackles and screams that seemed without end and without cause. Snufkin had never known an animal screech so loudly or so long.

Snufkin was greatly relieved when the birds began to sing and he finally had an excuse to get up. He would move the tent, he decided. He would find a better spot and swap his pillow and he would sleep right as rain tomorrow night.

Moomintroll was already pottering about the tiny kitchen, playing with the coffee machine – it was one of those funny electronic ones you put little capsules in. He seemed to be having a great deal of fun.

Snufkin watched him for a moment, amused, before Moomintroll caught sight of him, bounding forward to give him a quick nuzzle.

“Good morning!” he asked, tail flicking. “Sleep well?”

Something in Moomintroll’s tone suggested he knew perfectly well he hadn’t.

“Wonderfully,” said Snufkin stubbornly. Moomintroll gave him a dry look that made him look remarkably like Mamma. He turned back to the little machine, giving Snufkin’s paw a quick squeeze as he did so.

“Well, coffee will help. What would you like?” he said, holding up a packet of the pods. “There’s all these different flavours…I think a lot of them are Italian, you’d know better than me. Take a look!”

“As long as it’s black and caffeinated,” replied Snufkin. He was too tired to attempt to dredge up his Italian.

Moomintroll tutted, clearly less than impressed that Snufkin didn’t want to play, and popped a capsule into the machine, pressing a lot of different buttons until it started to make an alarming whirring noise.

“I thought we’d go to town today,” said Moomintroll. “Joxling gave me one of those senior passes for the tram – you know if you’re over 70 you can ride for free?”

“We don’t look a day over fifty, it will never work,” said Snufkin. Moomintroll snorted and passed him his coffee.

“So…what do you think?” asked Moomintroll, taking a seat on the sofa next to him, eyeing him carefully. Snufkin took a sip of coffee.

“It’s good,” he said. “But I still argue a stovetop pot is the best way to brew.”

“No, no,” replied Moomintroll, shuffling a bit closer. “What do you think of the cottage?”

“Oh. Well I suppose it’s nice enough, as houses go. The location’s lovely,” replied Snufkin, not sure where this conversation was going. He looked about, the at the perfectly even walls painted a perfectly even magnolia, the neat square furniture and clutter-less corners.

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s a bit…” said Snufkin, and shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know. Bit straight out of the box, isn’t it?”

“Most buildings are, these days,” agreed Moomintroll. “I read the other day that moomins don’t even build their own houses anymore. Something about planning permission and expenses.”

“Hmph! What rot. What are they going to do if you build it anyway, tear it down?”

Moomintroll chuckled.

“Yes, as it happens,” he said. “Then you like this place well enough?”

Moomintroll was many things. Kind and brave, a talented painter and a loyal friend and partner.

One thing he was not, however, was subtle. Snufkin put his coffee down on the table, sitting up.

“You think we should move here too,” said Snufkin. He didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation. Yet it couldn’t help but be. Moomintroll was quite for a long moment and then put his cup down on the coffee table, not meeting Snufkin’s eye.

“It might make things easier,” he said gently.

“We’re managing just fine,” snapped Snufkin, and then winced as a pain shot through his hip. Moomintroll shot an arm forward to grab him, as though Snufkin was about to topple off the sofa. Scowling, Snufkin shrugged him away.

“Oh don’t _fuss_ , Moomintroll,” he said. “There’s no need for us to abandon the island. You just let Joxling get you all worked up. You are dramatic.”

“And you’re not?” said Moomintroll, raising his eyebrows in such a way that Snufkin had to laugh. “There, I made you laugh! You have to agree to come into town today now.”

Snufkin raised an eyebrow at him.

“I wasn’t aware that was the rule.”

“It’s always been the rule,” said Moomintroll firmly. “Besides. Joxling has booked us lunch. She was insistent we go to it…although she refused to explain why. Why are you mumriks always so obtuse about everything?”

As much as Snufkin wasn’t one for fancy brunches, he couldn’t resist a mystery. And if a joxter – even one as modern as his granddaughter - was being coy about something, it was always worth investigating.

“Well. We’ll have to find out, in that case.”

****

It was somewhat of a debacle finding their way to the little café Joxling had sent them for lunch. Snufkin said they could find their way just fine by good common sense, while Moomintroll attempted to use the map on his phone, and both methods failed spectacularly. By the time they made their way there – pointed there by an amused-looking whomper woman – it was much past the meeting time.

Snufkin frowned at the shop. It was rather ostentatious, in his opinion. All black and gold, with faux-vintage furniture and art in the windows, the shelves stacked high with overpriced tea in colourful tins. Across in the corner was a piano, played by a rather snooty-looking fillyjonk. The tables were all covered with white tablecloths, so cleaned and starched one felt dirty even putting one’s paws on it. The teacups and silverware were equally find, all printed with the chain’s name in cursive. Snufkin spotted people taking photos on it with his phone.

Snufkin could not stand chains at the best of time. He especially did not like those that pretended to be special – there was something about the dishonesty of it he found loathsome.

Moomintroll looked at him, equally uneasy.

“Is this really what Joxling thinks we’d enjoy?” said Snufkin, beginning to be irritated now. Really now! Did the silly child not know them at all?

“Maybe we should leave,” muttered Moomintroll, fiddling with his tail.

Snufkin was just about to voice his agreement when a high voice rang out behind them.

 _“There_ you two are! I thought you’d _never_ get here!”

Snufkin turned to see Snorkmaiden charging at them from the lady’s room. She was dressed in a furry pink coat and a hat with a rather extravagant plume in it. Her fur had turned completely silver from tail-tip to fringe since he had last seen her. Last time, she had stopped being able to change her fur colour, and no amount of assuring her she was just as lovely as ever had helped.

“Snorkmaiden!” said Moomintroll brightly, opening his arms. Without a pause, she took off her coat, shoved it into Moomintroll’s arms, and then charged right past him to scoop Snufkin up in a hug.

“Oof!” said Snufkin, surprised at the strength Snorkmaiden still had in her. “I didn’t know you were back from Paris.”

“Oh, landed last night, couldn’t resist the urge to surprise you,” she said, putting Snufkin down and frowning at him. “You weigh absolutely nothing for such a round creature, you know. Are you eating properly?”

“Shall I just go hang these up then?” grumbled Moomintroll, holding up her coat and hat. “Maybe you’d like me to fetch you both some champagne while I’m at it?”

“Oh, don’t whine, Moomintroll,” she said, waving a paw dismissively. “You text me just about constantly! Meanwhile, I’m lucky if I get a letter a year from this one.”

Snufkin shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Everyone spends too much time staring at their phones, if you ask me,” he muttered. “No need to keep in touch every second of the day.”

Snorkmaiden rolled her eyes at him.

“Yes, yes. Anyway, let’s get a table!” she said, clapping her paws together. “I’ve been wanting to try this place for _ages_!”

“Bit _bourgeois,_ isn’t it?” muttered Snufkin.

“Oh hush, you. It’s _fun_ ,” she said, grinning. “Haven’t you grown into these sorts of things yet?”

“No, and I shan’t ever,” replied Snufkin stubbornly. Snorkmaiden only shook her head and turned on her heel, trying to get the attention of one of a nearby waiter.

“Oh! _Garçon_!” she called. “We have a booking!”

Another staff member swept over, with the same plastic smile practically pinned in place, offering many ‘Good afternoon ma’am’s and ‘May I take your hat, sir?’s (Snufkin all but had to clutch his hat to his head to stop it being taken, to the staff’s great disapproval), before they were shuffled into one of the tables. Snufkin already felt his ears ringing at the cups clinking, forks scraping against plates, the repetitive piano music. The worst was the constant chatter – not that it was rowdy. Far from it. Rowdy Snufkin would have been able to deal with it. Much worse was the low, subdued murmur, like the sort hears in a library. Snufkin kenw instantly that if he spoke too loudly, as he tended to, everyone would know in an instant, and would look at him in the way such people always looked at snufkins.

The Valley never used to be like this.

“And for you, sir?”

Snufkin looked up, at the waitress quite literally looking down her snout at him. Suddenly, Snufkin was struck by the desire to get up and leave, but there were many tables between himself and the exit, and Snorkmaiden was here and beaming at him, and he hardly knew where he’d go, anyway.

He had hardly looked at the menu, and his voice was no longer in his throat.

“We’ll have a pot of the oolong to share, please,” interrupted Moomintroll quickly. The waitress nodded and rushed off to fetch it. After a quick glance around (they’d never quite unlearned the habit), Moomintroll took his paw under the table, eyebrows furrowed. Snufkin snatched his paw back, not in the mood to be pitied.

“Is everything okay?” asked Snorkmaiden. Snufkin nodded, busying himself with unfolding the napkin swan on the table. What a ridiculous touch. A napkin was already unnecessary enough, there was no need to make it such a silly shape. Moomintroll gave him a searching look but knew well enough when to leave well alone.

He half-listened as Moomintroll and Snorkmaiden caught up, Snorkmaiden talking about the new chap who had proposed to her (and whether it was worth bothering with a _fourth_ husband), Moomintroll discussing a painting he’d been commissioned to do over the summer, how Sniff was doing, the children and grandchildren and all the other odd people that had become part of the family over the years. Their familiar chatter made it easier to relax, as though they were sitting in one of the old flower meadows and talking.

The waitress returned with their teas, as well as a little sand timer to tell them when it was brewed (which, admittedly, they were all delighted by), as well as the array of fancy cakes Snorkmaiden and Moomintroll had eagerly ordered. Snufkin picked apart a cucumber sandwich, sliding the soggy cucumber and dressing onto his plate and popping the slivers of bread into his mouth.

“He is quite sweet, you know, I do have fun with him,” Snorkmaiden was saying, back to the topic of this new chap.

“I don’t see why you want to marry again,” said Moomintroll, gesturing with his fork. “You couldn’t wait to get rid of the last one.”

Snorkmaiden sighed, putting her snout on her paws.

“Oh, I know! They’re always fun to chase but a terrible bore when you get them. Then they’re in your house, just all the time, and you can’t shoo them away for some peace,” she said, shaking her head. “And the cows and chickens never like them! That’s a pain.”

“How old is this one then - twenty?” asked Snufkin.

“Forty-five, actually. And don’t be mean!” she said, as though she wasn’t immensely proud of herself. She popped a macaron into her mouth and chewed it carefully. “And well, you know, it can make things easier. I’m supposed to be drawing up a will, and it would be easier to just leave the majority of things to someone young enough to deal with it…”

“What do you need a will for?” muttered Snufkin.

“Because I’m _old_ , you trout,” she said. Moomintroll laughed and the conversation moved elsewhere. They fell quiet as the second round of teas were served. It was in this quiet - Moomintroll cleaning his spectacles, Snufkin crunching into a cube of sugar - that Snorkmaiden said something neither of them were expecting:

“Little My was in the hospital recently, you know.”

Snufkin almost choked on the sugar and Moomintroll sat upright in his chair.

“Little My? She’s _never_ been to a doctor in her life,” said Moomintroll, eyes wide with alarm. Snufkin looked up, heart suddenly in his throat. He hadn’t heard anything of the like. Admittedly she hadn’t been in touch in a while, but Little My was capricious like that. He assumed she was just off causing some mischief somewhere.

“Well, now she has. Something to do with her back. I don’t know the details, just that she was in enough pain her niece forced her to go,” continued Snorkmaiden, looking at the teacup between her paws. “You know what she’s like. Stubborn as an old mule. But apparently she’s agreed to move in with her niece for a time. Struggling to get about by herself at the moment.”

“Not Little My. She’s always been spry as anything!” said Moomintroll, leaning back on his chair. “By my tail, thought she’d be the same forever.”

“Nobody is,” said Snorkmaiden quietly.

Snufkin’s stomach clenched. He looked at the half-massacred sandwich on his plate, suddenly not in the mood for it. He had barely wanted it to begin with.

Snorkmaiden looked up at him and then leaned forward, planting her elbows on the table (ignoring the glare a Fillyjonk at the next table gave her for it).

“You know what? I think you were right. This place _is_ a bit stuffy, isn’t it?” she said. “Let’s get the rest of this to go! _Excusez-moi!_ ”

As another waiter rushed towards them, Snufkin made a quick exit, leaving Snorkmaiden to settle the bill and for Moomintroll to convince the baffled staff to box the leftovers for them. Stepping outside, he breathed a great sigh of relief, leaning against the front door. It was a relief to be out, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what Snorkmaiden had said.

What was Little My thinking, taking unwell and then not letting them know about it? What reckless thing had she been doing to hurt her back like that?

He fiddled in his pockets for his pipe.

Knowing Little My, it was probably something she wasn’t meant to be doing in the least.

That thought, at least, was a little comforting. In all likelihood, Little My had tried to make some daring jump or created some contraption and made a miscalculation. Yes, she would be good as new in no time at all.

He had begun puffing on his pipe (ignoring the ‘Harrumph!’ from the fillyjonk passing by with her children) when Snorkmaiden and Moomintroll finally re-emerged.

“Really, you’d think nobody ever asked for a doggy bag in there!” she said, holding up a little box. “They made such a fuss!”

“The portions are so tiny, I suppose they haven’t,” remarked Snufkin idly.

“Hm, I suppose so,” she said, scratching her neck. “Oh dear, I suppose that wasn’t really our sort of place, was it?”

“Why did you pick it then?” asked Moomintroll, shaking his head but sounding more amused than anything.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, tossing her hair. “It’s the sort of place we’re supposed to enjoy at our age, isn’t it? We can hardly just sit on the beach with a bottle of wine like we used to.”

“Well why not?” asked Snufkin, tapping out his tobacco ash. “Sounds like a splendid way to spend the evening.”

Snorkmaiden didn’t look so convinced.

“It’s a bit unrefined, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s all well and good to do that when you’re in your twenties, but…”

“Oh, but nothing,” said Moomintroll, waggling his cane at her (requiring Snufkin to grab him and keep him upright). “Palm wine! Let’s get some palm wine. And some _real_ food. I’m _starving_.”

“Oh, alright,” said Snorkmaiden, tone begrudging but eyes bright. “When in the Valley, I suppose.”

****

They couldn’t find any palm wine (the youngster behind the counter only looked baffled when they asked), so they settled for buying a couple of bottles of red (Moomintroll insisted on paying – he wouldn’t let Snufkin smuggle them out under his coat). To fill the hole left by that sparee afternoon tea, they also bought a kalakukko each at a nice little stall Snufkin spotted.

Snorkmaiden sat her handbag down on the sand with a huff, the bottles and cups clinking inside, the necks sticking out of the top.

“I never quite had Mamma’s talent for packing a handbag,” she said, unpacking.

“Oh, nobody has that. Mamma used to literally be able to fit the kitchen sink in hers,” said Moomintroll, handing a foil-wrapped kalakukko to each of them. Snufkin sat, letting the two of them fuss over napkins and cups (as though they wouldn’t be perfectly happy to just pass the bottle between the three of them). There was a hemulen walking a dog along the beach, and a few young people wading out in the waters, but other than that it was quiet. If Snufkin looked out to sea, and just listened to Snorkmaiden and Moomintroll chattering, it almost felt like Moominvalley.

“Snuf,” said Moomintroll, pushing a paper cup of wine into his paw.

“Oh, this does feel better!” said Snorkmaiden, setting the bottle back down in the sand. “Shame Sniff and my brother aren’t here. Would feel just like it did when we all met!”

“I hope not. I doubt I’d be able to manage walking in stilts again,” said Moomintroll, shaking his head.

“I’m sure we’d get a handle on it, if need be,” said Snufkin, taking a sip and settling himself back on his elbows. “I daresay you’d still rush out to save that silk monkey, bad knee or no bad knee.”

Snorkmaiden laughed.

“Oh dear, I’d forgotten all about that!” she said. “Whatever became of her, do we know?”

“I haven’t the faintest, we didn’t see her after all that,” said Moomintroll, scratching behind his neck. “I suppose a lot of creatures relocated after the comet.”

“I don’t think there have been silk monkeys in the Valley for a long while now,” said Snufkin, crossing one leg over the other. “Not enough fruit trees, these days.”

“I suppose not…” said Moomintroll sadly.

“Now, now. Let’s not get like that,” said Snorkmaiden. “I’m sure there’s a splendid forest full of fruit trees out there for them somewhere.”

“Yes,” said Snufkin quickly, not at all liking the way Moomintroll’s ears drooped. “We’re celebrating, aren’t we? Snorkmaiden’s fourth husband.”

“I told you, I haven’t decided yet –“

“And Joxling’s first,” said Moomintroll, brightening.

“Of many, hopefully!” chimed in Snorkmaiden, giggling and lifting her drink.

“I should hope not!” huffed Moomintroll, but lifted his drink anyway.

Laughing, Snufkin toasted with them, for a moment glad to be back in the Valley.

****

Even Snorkmaiden was rather pink-faced and tipsy by the time they parted. Giving them both a rather wet kiss on the cheek, she departed the tram a few stops wandering off to her hotel for the night. They walked from the final tram stop to the Joxling’s little cottage paw-in-paw, laughing about the absurd story Snorkmaiden had told them.

“I don’t see why she didn’t send the silly girl away,” said Snufkin. “Even if she was offering to translate one of her books.”

“It wouldn’t be kind,” replied Moomintroll. “Besides, you know Snorkmaiden. She likes being doted on. She probably couldn’t resist.”

“She did mention how pretty she was. Several times,” said Snufkin, shaking his head.

“That sounds about right,” he said, and grunted, leaning against his cane for a second. “I’m sure this hill wasn’t so steep yesterday.”

“Do you need to rest?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said, straightening up. “Bit to drink, that’s all.”

Snufkin took his arm, helping him the rest of the way, squeezing him as they passed the lilac bushes.

The herring gull was still standing by his tent. It turned its head as they approached.

Snufkin had the uneasy sense the creature had been waiting for him.

“I think I’ll sleep outside again tonight,” said Snufkin, still watching the herring gull. “It’s still warm, after all.

He didn’t see Moomintroll’s expression, but he felt a gentle squeeze on his arm in response.

“Alright. I think I need to go straight to bed tonight,” he said, yawning and stretching. “We don’t usually get so much excitement in one day.”

Snufkin hummed and crouched down, ready to crawl into his tent for the night.

“Are you worried about Little My?” said Moomintroll suddenly. Snufkin paused and looked back at him. Moomintroll stood, twisting his fingers together, an odd expression on his face.

“I doubt there’s a need,” said Snufkin after a moment. “Little My is always fine, isn’t she?”

“Well, yes, but…” said Moomintroll carefully, looking down at his paws. He shook his head suddenly, forcing a smile. “No, you’re right. It will take more than a sore back to bring Little My down. Goodnight, Snufkin.”

****

When Pappa passed on, Snufkin had been bracing for the worst.

When it happened, the old moomin had been ill a while. Unlike when Pappa had colds in the past, when he became dreadfully melodramatic and required Mamma to pamper him practically every second of the day, he spent his last few weeks admirably optimistic. He was suddenly as jolly and good-natured as he’d been before the island, before November, before everything had turned a little strange and sombre. He told stories and fussed around the house and boasted in his cheerful way.

Mamma, who had barely spoken to her husband in so long, allowed Pappa to move back into the house. With him so sweet and cheerful, she became the devoted wife again. Quietly one night, Moomintroll admitted he found the whole thing odd.

“It’s like the two of them are playing parts in a play, for my sake,” he muttered, staying in Snufkin’s tent for the night.

“Might be for their own sake,” replied Snufkin softly.

It had been strange when Snufkin returned that spring after November, finding Moominvalley just as quiet as he left it. For months, it was just him and the little creature Toft, barely looking at or speaking to one another. Until they saw a little green light on the horizon, a hurricane lamp attached to the mast of a ship.

It had been Mamma – just Mamma. Moominpappa was on his island, presiding over his lighthouse. Moomintroll had set off on his own adventures, as had Little My. Moomintroll wrote, more and more when he learned that Snufkin was in Moominvalley, until he finally came home, meeting Snufkin halfway on his winter travels, the two of them now adults, and surprised at each other for it. They had missed the last few years of childhood together, somehow or another, and it was hard not to consider it a loss.

They travelled together, and then one year when they returned, they found Pappa had come home too. Yet he was not living in Moominhouse. Instead, he lived in the little cave by the beach, sleeping in a hammock and roasting fish over the fire. The two moomins would nod at each other, cordial as neighbours, should they cross paths, but they rarely went further than that. Snufkin got the story of the island, in bits and pieces over the years, but he wasn’t sure he could ever fully understand it.

It was only when Pappa was sickly did he turn up on the front steps of Moominhouse, hat in his paws. What he and Mamma talked about, Snufkin never knew. Only that Pappa spent those last few weeks in Moominhouse, more himself than ever, until finally none of Mamma’s medicine could do anything more.

It was a dreadful day when he passed, even knowing it was coming. Snufkin expected Moomintroll to crumble, afterwards. He and Pappa had had their differences, of course, but they loved each other all the same.

Strangely, Moomintroll did nothing of the sort. He became the model son, taking care of Mamma beautifully. Moomins did not fuss much during such times, so there wasn’t much to do, but everything that needed to be done Moomintroll did. Moominpappa was buried, his memoirs finally bound, the children and wider family contacted. When Snufkin returned the following spring, Moomintroll was in good spirits, if a little grey at the tips of his ears and tail, and he was eager to depart on their usual adventures.

They talked about it a lot, in their usual quiet way, but Snufkin found that there was little he needed to do. Moomintroll was very strong, after all.

****

Snufkin woke to a pain shooting up his hip, and the herring gull screeching outside his tent. It was still dark, the cold biting through his coat and the mountain of blankets he’d piled on top of him. What terrible weather for this time of year. He tried to settle back down, tucking himself into a careful ball and lying very still, keeping all his warmth inside him. It was not an easy a trick as it used to be, but he could still do it.

The herring gull screamed again. The sound was somehow sharper than the gulls on their island. It cut through him, sharp and cold as a blade against his ear drum.

“I cannot settle like this,” he snapped.

Shivering, he reached for the lantern. If one had to box a gull to get some rest, so be it. He was in no mood for a silly animal’s screeching.

“Now quiet down. It’s outside of mating season, you know!” he said as he emerged from the tent. “There’s no need for a racket!”

The herring gull was standing on the mailbox, so silent and still it was though it had never made a sound in its life.

“So now I’m awake and you have nothing to say for yourself?” said Snufkin, suddenly quite irritated – was it having him on?

The herring gull only stared, very still. What a strange and disagreeable little creature.

“You’re being very stubborn,” he told it, waggling a finger. “Now don’t start again as soon as I go back in.”

“Wake up,” said the Herring Gull.

“I’m sorry?” said Snufkin, almost dropping the lantern in fright.

“Wake _up!_ ” it repeated, and turned away from him.

The Herring Gull spread its wings and a deep pool of dread dropped through Snufkin’s stomach. He knew, in the way one knows a change in the wind or a scent in the air, that if the Herring Gull were to take flight, something terrible would happen. He lurched forward, one paw outstretched to seize it, keep it in place and –

“Snuf! Snuf, are you awake?”

Snufkin woke, claws digging into his sleeping bag and forehead sticky with sweat. His hip insisted on aching, no matter how he tried to put it out of his mind. Seeing Moomintroll’s shadow against the tent canvas, he sat up. There was a grey feather on his chest, curled around the button of his coat.

“Snufkin,” said Moomintroll, pretending to knock on the door of the tent. “I’m going to see Joxling to start painting her wedding present. Would you like to tag along?”

Snufkin lay back down, sore all the way across his back. He grunted, sliding his pillow under his back, trying to find a way to lie that was comfortable.

“No, I think I’ll take the day to explore a little by myself,” he said, through his teeth. Moomintroll hovered by the entrance.

“Are you sure?” he asked. Snufkin huffed – it wasn’t like Moomintroll to question it when he wanted his space. After knowing each other for almost seventy years, he should really know better than that.

“Quite. I’d like a walk about to figure out what’s what,” he said.

“Okay then,” said Moomintroll uncertainly. “I left your phone on charge inside, I’ll text you when I’m heading back.”

“Oh, you hardly need to go to all that trouble,” he said. “Just focus on your painting, I’ll be alright.”

“I know,” he said, and then paused for a second. “I love you.”

Snufkin lifted his head, startled. It wasn’t as though it was a surprise – he knew it well, but they rarely felt need to say it. The fact Moomintroll did made a pressure close in around his chest, something tight and choking he couldn’t quite name.

“I love you too,” he muttered after a long while, because what else could he say.

He wasn’t sure if Moomintroll heard him, but he lingered a second before his shadow disappeared, the heavy thud of his cane and the rattle of his painter’s set fading as he walked down the hill.

“Right,” said Snufkin, getting to his knees and crawling out of the tent, grimacing at the pain the simple movement gave him. The herring gull was nowhere to be seen, and the sun was shining bright and splendid above him.

It would be a lovely little patch of grass to sit in, if not for the rose bushes looking so limp and sad. He supposed he could spend the day tending them, but that made the pressure around his chest even worse.

“Well, you’re not mine, are you?” he told them.

No, he thought. Today was as a day for walking and exploring. Taking his pack and his canteen, Snufkin set off, deciding to forget about the rose bushes and the herring gull just like that.

****

The mountains, at least, looked the same as they always had. For all the foul industrialisation across the world, the proliferation of unnecessary vehicles and even more unnecessary factories, the air was as clean and fresh as it had been the first spring he’d returned after his winter travels. Looking out across the Valley, Snufkin could see the arch of their old bridge across the stream, although now there was a café settled on one side, a line of shops on the other.

And there! Surely there were the fruit trees the silk monkeys had once lived in. There were not so many now, and perhaps nobody picked the fruit anymore, preferring the larger and prettier fruit available at the market stalls, but there it was.

“There’s something,” he muttered happily to himself. “There are things people don’t pull down.”

Snufkin lit his pipe and walked on, wondering if he should perhaps look for his old hot springs. It would perhaps do his hip some good to be soaked properly. He probably remembered the way well enough, and it was not too terribly far. With water and an apple in his pack and the sun shining so brightly, it would be a splendid little hike.

Snufkin walked following the stream, humming the beginnings of a new tune to himself. There were more dreadful houses here these days, but they were sparse and quiet, with unwalled gardens and chickens in their coops. In fact, they did not look terribly different from his own cottage back on Harusaari. With a pang, he wondered how their cottage was doing without him, whether the garden was growing in well, whether the seagulls that roosted on the balcony were fed, if their chicks were perhaps ready to leave the nest.

Strange. Here he was out in the grass and hills, and he was thinking suddenly of home.

These thoughts distracted him so thoroughly, he walked directly into a fence, his pipe almost going down the back of his throat.

He coughed, spitting tobacco into the grass, and looked up. Blocking the route to his hot springs was a great gilded fence, with some atrocious sign in brass and gold arching across the entranceway.

 _Ängsmarn Mountain Park_ it read. Lower was a hideous plastic sign, detailing the many rules of the park – no ball games, no skateboarding, no drinking, entry to the park free and yet the hot springs would be charged for simply a dip, and one couldn’t take a boat out on the lake unless renting one from the proper authorities.

Snufkin had hardly read such hemulic nonsense in his very long life.

“Right then,” he said, and drew out his pocket knife and lighter, looking for where the sign was attached to the gate. “Let’s deal with this, shall we.”

****

The Joxling had had a terribly stressful day. She woke full of forebodings, which she tried to ignore. With the wedding looming so close, there seemed to be an endless list of things to do, and endless forebodings to accompany them.

As always, she should have minded them more carefully. Before she’d even finished her morning coffee, her fiancé’s family had their flights cancelled, quite out of the blue, and to make matters worse her fiancé had been called in abruptly for a work emergency, so Joxling was left attempting to reorganise travel for a dozen surly hemulens. And then the flowers turned up early, but they were the wrong breed and the wrong colour and the delivery-bird refused to take them back. As soon as she’d emptied every glass and receptacle in the house to put them in, an ice sculpture had turned up, already melting in the summer heat. Neither of them had even _considered_ having ice sculptures, not with so many joxter and mymble relatives who wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to lick it. With no better ideas, Joxling propped it in front of the open freezer, desperately calling everyone she could to figure out who had sent it.

And then dear Moominmorfar had turned up on her doorstep, dragging a large canvas and a box of paints with him.

“Good afternoon, dearie!” he crowed, as though the Joxling wasn’t two seconds from bursting into tears. “I thought I’d come get a start on your painting today”

“My what?”

“Your wedding present, of course!” he replied, letting himself in and dumping his equipment on the ground, already unfolding an easel.

“Grandpa, I don’t –“

“Oh, don’t worry about my fees, you’re family, aren’t you?” replied Moominmorfar merrily. “Where is that fiancé of yours? I’d like to get the both of you in.”

“He’s – he’s at work. Just got called in,” she said weakly. Moominmorfar stumbled over a milk bottle full of flowers.

“Oh, well, I’ll sketch you in and get him later, I suppose. Your home décor is a bit odd,” he said, stooping to pick it up (and knocking down a mug of flowers in the process). “What’s this called again, upcycling?”

“No, that’s – where’s Snufkinmorfar?” she asked, trying to move as much out of his way as she could. Snufkinmorfar, as impossible as he could also be, tended to be a bit less prone to getting romantic ideas in his head as Moominmorfar. He might at least see sense and take them both out of her fur.

To her surprise, Moominmorfar frowned.

“Bit of a funny mood this morning, I think,” he said, voice low. “Slept in his tent again.”

“Why are you letting him do that?” she said, exasperated. Moominmorfar gave her a strange look, almost as though disappointed, and shook his head.

“He’s not a pet,” he said severely. “He’s a grown man. I can no more let him sleep outside than he can let me sleep inside.”

“But – but it’s not _good_ for him!” she said. Sleeping outside on the cold ground at his age! No wonder her mother and cousins were constantly fretting about him – he was going to freeze to death just out of sheer stubbornness!

“You hardly need to tell me that,” huffed Moominmorfar, and Joxling had the dreadful sense that she had very much trodden on his tail. She fell silent, watching as he laid out his pencils and paints.

“I’ve always worried more than anyone,” he added quietly, “even when everyone else thought he was indestructible.”

“Then –“

“But Snufkin is Snufkin and I shan’t tell him to be anything but!” he said. “Do you have a cup for pencil shavings?”

Joxling fetched him one, putting it beside him. She opened her laptop again, trying to answer a few more emails. Moominmorfar sat, sharpening a pencil with a little knife from his pocket.

“Dearie,” he said suddenly, just as Joxling wasa going back to the piece of code she was working on. “It’s a lovely cottage. And it was very sweet of you all to build it for us –“

“We didn’t,” she squeaked. “I told you! It’s our summer home”

“I’m old, not stupid, Joxling,” he said dryly. He closed her laptop and took it from her, without as much as a word of warning. “Now, you look stressed and upset. It will do you good to just sit for five minutes and let me sketch you.”

“But I have so much to _do_ ,” she whined, grabbing for her laptop.

“Oh honestly, young people always do,” he said. “It can’t be as urgent as all that.”

“It is!” she protested, trying to get up.

“No. I may not be able to tell Snufkin what to do, but I am your grandfather, so I think I can tell you off now and then,” he said, and then in a stern tone that accepted no argument: “Sit.”

Most would be forgiven for thinking Snufkinmorfar was the stricter of the two, but that wasn’t anywhere near the truth. The Joxling and her cousins knew fine well that if one wanted something, one should go directly to Snufkinmorfar. He would complain, but he would crumble right away and give you whatever you liked, forgive you whatever transgression you made.

On the other hand, whenever there was trouble, it was always Moominmorfar who would emerge with a finger waggling and a stern telling-off.

Joxling, even as a grown woman, wasn’t stupid enough to try and argue with _The Tone_.

She sat down. Moominmorfar beamed at her.

“This won’t take long! Just breathe and relax in the meantime,” he said, setting up his sketchpad on the easel. Joxling sat, not really sure what to do with her limbs or her face or…any of her, really. It was terribly un-joxter of her, but she rarely just sat and did nothing. Moominmorfar looked as though she was just holding back a laugh.

“What?”

“Oh, you’re just very different from your great-grandfather, that’s all.”

“Your Pappa?”

“Snufkin’s Pappa,” he said, not looking up from his sketch. “You’re a little like mine, I suppose. The same constant urge to be doing something or another. Although you’re much more sensible.”

She laughed. It was not often she got called sensible – her great-grandfather must have been quite a character for the comparison to be favourable. Then she frowned, another thought coming to her.

“I suppose Snufkinmorfar’s pappa would have thought I was a really bad joxter, huh?” she said, it coming out a bit more bitter than she intended. Moominmorfar looked up at her, eyebrow raising.

“Snufkinmorfar doesn’t think that of you, you know. He’s just…well, I think he’s just a bit sad there aren’t as many joxters living how they used to,” he said and then added. “I know things change but…it _is_ a shame.”

“It is,” she agreed. Her father had told her a few joxter folk tales growing up, and she had visited her paternal grandmother in her colony once, but other than that she’d basically lived a hemulic life.

They sat quietly for a while, Joxling listening to Moominmorfar’s pencil scratching against he paper. To her surprise, she found the tension leaking out of her body, the thoughts of wasted time and a growing to-do list becoming more distant in her mind.

There was one matter she couldn’t put out of her mind, however.

“Are you going back to Harusaari, after this?” she asked finally.

Moominmorfar paused, expression hidden behind his easel. He leaned over and mixed a little swatch of paint, a colour remarkably like her own fur.

“I don’t want to leave Moominvalley any more than Snufkinmorfar does,” he said softly. “But it is getting difficult. Snufkinmorfar’s convinced it’s getting colder out there. He complains about it every day. But it isn’t, is it?”

She shook her head.

He chuckled to himself, applying a bit of colour to his sketch.

“We should get you a proper joxter hat for the full painting,” he said. “I think you’d look splendid in it.”

“I’m not sure about that,” she said, laughing shakily.

“Nonsense! You’d be very handsome, and I’m sure –“

What Moominmorfar was sure of, Joxling never got to find out, because the house telephone suddenly let out a shrill ring. Joxling jumped, almost knocking over her chair.

“Who calls the _house phone_?” she said. “Sorry, Grandpa, I need to –“

“Not a problem,” he said. She crossed the room and picked up the receiver. The boy on the other end asked for her by her full birth name (strange enough – joxter names were long enough nobody used them unless they absolutely had to). Upon hearing that he’d reached the right person he sighed, and she had the sense he’d been calling around for a while.

“Er, well, we have an old bloke here who claims to be your grandfather,” said the lad, sounding terribly apologetic.

Joxling didn’t need to hear much more.

“We’ll be round as soon as we can.”

****

“This is absurd.”

“Now come on, sir –“

“Don’t you sir me!”

It had been a long time since Snufkin had gotten tangled with a park keeper. The last – well, it was before any of the grandchildren were born, and the two youngest were still living with them, so it must have been at least thirty years, possibly forty. The park keeper had shouted at them for pitching their tents on “private property”, and had given chase when they refused to budge. It had been terribly exciting, in a way, even when the old fellow began swearing so badly Snufkin had to put his paws around the children’s ears.

This was something new entirely. The park keeper did not give chase – in fact, he seemed rather alarmed, and hesitant to touch him at all. Moreover, it was not an old fellow. In fact, the one who had caught Snufkin in the act barely looked a day over twenty. The lad still had _braces_ , for the Groke’s sake.

His boss, when the chap finally arrived, didn’t look much older - basically still a boy himself. In fact, he couldn’t be any older than the Joxling.

To think! To be so young yet so authoritarian!

“What’s he been doing?” asked the Senior Park Keeper. The boy rubbed the back of his head, snout twitching.

“Oh, he’s been pulling up signs, all the keep off the grass signs, toilet signs, even the ones at the entrance to the park. Even ripped up some of the paving stones,” he said, and then dropped to a stage whisper. “I think the old dear’s confused.”

Snufkin bristled.

“I’m not confused in the least!” he snarled. “I just want to know why you think you can fence off and brick up something that doesn’t belong to you!”

“Er, well the owners of the park had it done, sir, and it _does_ belong to them,” said the Junior Park Keeper, awkwardly.

“Rubbish!” he replied, putting his paws on his hips. “It doesn’t belong to any one person. I’ve been visiting these mountains since I was a boy and they won’t take kindly to someone trying to claim them.”

“I don’t think the mountains have any opinion on it, old fellow,” said the Senior Park Keeper, looking as though he was trying not to laugh. Snufkin had half a mind to hurl one of the signs at him, but he wasn’t sure he had the heart. It felt unsporting, fighting someone young enough to be one’s grandson.

“Well, why put up all these rules about what can or cannot be done!” he continued, feeling more belligerent by the second.

“Sir, if you have a complaint,” said the Junior Park Keeper, in the gentle voice one takes with a cornered animal, “you can write to the National Parks Association…there’s not much we can do about things.”

“We can take you back to our cabin, if you’d like to write it there,” said the other one. “Just hand the signs back over, come now, we don’t want to involve the police.”

Snufkin snorted.

“Involve them if you like, I’ve dealt with them plenty!” he said. The park keepers exchanged a look, each looking as dubious as the other. They took a step forward and Snufkin jolted back, a bit too fast, and a pain shot through his side. He cried out, stumbling, and both park keepers darted forward, the younger catching him.

“Oh, be careful!” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing, I – owwww…”

“Oh dear,” said the Senior Park Keeper. “Should we call an ambulance?”

“Absolutely not!” he snapped, the heat rushing to his face. “It’s just a bit sore, that’s all.”

“I really think we should –“

“If you call an ambulance, I will bite you.”

They were both startled into laughter. Snufkin only glowered more ferociously. The Junior Park Keeper put an arm around him and helped him upright.

“Come on, sir. We’ll get you a nice cup of tea, how about that? Can anyone come get you?”

Snufkin wanted dearly to thrash and protest, but he suspected it wouldn’t end well for him. Besides, he was beginning to feel very embarrassed. That was always the way with such things. Once the righteous anger wore off, you began to see yourself how everyone else did, and you wished you hadn’t behaved in such a way.

“My granddaughter lives nearby,” he grumbled finally, wishing he could just run off and leave this whole sorry episode behind.

“Great!” said the Junior Park Keeper, “do you have her number?”

“Do I look like a phonebook to you?” he snapped. Both park keepers sighed.

“Of course not, sir…of course not.”

“I’ll leave this to you,” said the Senior Park Keeper to the younger, scooping up the signs Snufkin had dropped. “I best try to put these back in their rightful places.”

****

The Junior Park Keeper was true to his word, making Snufkin a cup of tea despite his insistence he would much prefer a coffee, and giving him some stationery to write a sternly worded letter to the park’s owners. Snufkin refused. Letters did precious little for a campaign. After all, it was much too easy to simply discard letters you didn’t want to see. Besides, now he was sitting in a comfortable chair and had taken a few painkillers, he couldn’t quite whip himself up into the right sort of frenzy about it.

“How are you feeling, sir?” asked the Junior Park Keeper, hovering around him like a fussy little gnat.

“Stop calling me sir,” he said. “Nobody should ever call a snufkin sir.”

“It feels a bit cheeky, just calling you that, sir,” he said. Snufkin rolled his eyes. Hemulens. He never understood their notions of politeness. When he was a young man he was lucky to get anything kinder than ‘Thieving scum’ or ‘Oi, you!’. Now he was an old man they fretted over whether they were being polite enough.

In Snufkin’s opinion, one should either be rude to everyone like a mymble or polite to everyone like a moomin. This picking and choosing was simply duplicitous.

“Well, your granddaughter said she’s on the way,” said the Junior Park Keeper.

“And my husband?”

Snufkin had to admit, he was just being difficult now. He and Moomintroll normally avoided making the nature of their relationship clear to strangers. Of course, within their own circles it was an open secret, but it was not so long ago there were laws against it altogether. Even now, after the hemulens and fillyjonks had been so _kind_ as to give them _permission_ (as if they ever had the right to say otherwise!), one could never know how some would react.

Yet the Junior Park Keeper was unruffled, only raising his eyebrows for a second before smoothing his face over.

“She didn’t mention,” he said carefully. Snufkin huffed. The lad was far too reasonable to be a park keeper. He wasn’t any fun in the least.

“May I smoke?” he asked.

“I’d rather you didn’t, sir,” he said, pointing to a ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall. Snufkin took out his pipe and lit it, staring at the Junior Park Keeper all the while. The hemulen grimaced and went to open a window.

Snufkin had smoked all the tobacco in his pipe by the time he heard the crunch of a familiar pair of boots and an even more familiar pair of paws on the dirt path.

“Snufkin!” cried Moomintroll, rushing through without pausing to wipe his paws. He stopped upon seeing Snufkin curled up in the chair, cup of tea in paws. He put his paws on his hips, his glasses slipping down his snout.

“Well don’t you look cosy!” he said. “And I was worrying myself sick about you rotting away in jail.”

Snufkin couldn’t help but grin.

“Well, I did request they throw me in a proper cell, but park keepers don’t seem to have them these days,” he said, and looked at the park keeper. “They’ve gone completely soft, I tell you, Moomintroll.”

Snufkin leaned his head around to look at Joxling, but she didn’t smile back. In fact, her mouth was drawn very tight, and she was holding her arms tight around her.

“What’s wrong, little beast? I’m perfectly well,” he said. For a second, she looked as though she was about to say something, when the Senior Park Keeper returned.

“Did you manage to get in touch with the chap’s family – _sötnos_?” he gasped, stopping still as he caught sight of the Joxling. She turned to look at him, face red.

“Well, dear, I see you’ve met my Pop-pop,” she said, the humour in her voice not quite meeting her eyes.

****

The Joxling drove them back, Moomintroll and Snufkin in the backseat, feeling for all the world like a pair of scolded schoolchildren. The Senior Park Keeper sat in the passenger seat, looking more mortified than any of them, and his half-hearted attempts at jokes only deepened that sense of embarrassment.

Joxling said nothing, cold as frost, her gaze set on the road.

“Well,” said Moomintroll as they finally stepped out of the car. “It’s splendid to finally meet you. At the least, I can’t imagine a faster way to get to know Snufkin!”

“Er, yes,” said the Senior Park Keeper, putting his paws in his pockets, and then on his hips, and then gave Moomintroll a rather awkward paw-shake. “Joxling talks about you both a lot I’m sorry it’s took us so long to meet, just…busy with work, you know.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Moomintroll, although he had never been busy a day in his life. “You’ll have to visit Moominvalley some time!”

The Senior Park Keeper looked perplexed at that, glancing over at Joxling for help.

“Darling, why don’t you head back?” she said. “I’d like a word with Pop-pop.”

“Right, I’ll uh – I’ll just wait in the car for a moment,” he said.

Perhaps it was Snufkin’s imagination, but he was certain the Senior Park Keeper gave him a sympathetic look before shutting himself back in the car.

“Oh dear,” began Snufkin when they got back inside the cottage, “you never told me the boy was a _park keeper_ –“

“What were you _thinking_?” snapped Joxling, whirling around, tail fluffed up to twice its usual size.

“Now, now, there’s no need to snap,” said Moomintroll, but Joxling waved his paw away.

“There’s plenty of need,” she retorted, tugging on her fur. “That was so _embarrassing_!”

“Do you just sit and bear pointless signs like that put up everywhere?” retorted Snufkin.

“Yes!” she shouted. Snufkin jumped – Joxling sometimes got a little worked up and worried, but he’d never heard her _angry_ before.

“I don’t _like_ them but I know tearing them down isn’t going to do anything!” she said. “You’re lucky you were caught by who you were. I don’t want to think what would have happened if someone had called the police.”

“Oh, you’re taking this much too seriously, Joxling,” he said. “Now, I think I’ll go for a lie down in my tent.”

“No! You aren’t!” she said, blocking his escape. “Why won’t you let us talk some sense into you?”

“This is a lot of carry-on for getting into a bit of a kerfuffle with a park keeper,” he said, folding his arms. “Are you that embarrassed of your family?”

That seemed to catch her off-guard. She stepped back, biting down on her lip.

“Of course not,” she said, tail thrashing back and forth. “But – do you know how hard it is to get _his_ family to like _me_?”

“Well phooey to them if they don’t like you dearie!” said Moomintroll, clearly distressed at the thought of anyone disliking his eldest granddaughter.

“Yes, quite, just forget about them –“ started Snufkin, but that didn’t seem to help at all.

“It’s not as simple as all that. I can’t just – they matter him so they matter to me,” she said, gritting her teeth. “And it’s not even – that’s not even what I’m really mad about!”

“For the Booble’s sake,” groaned Snufkin, quite tired of this back-and-forth. “What is it then?”

“Pop-pop what if the police had been called and they’d hurt you? What if you got thrown in prison and got sick?” she said, clutching at her hoodie. “We all worry about the two of you out on that island enough! You don’t need to _put_ yourself in danger!”

“You don’t need to worry about us,” he muttered.

“If one of you got hurt or sick out there, none of us could do anything fast enough,” she said, and then looked at Moomintroll. “Moominmorfar agrees with me.”

Snufkin looked at Moomintroll, who was now twirling the thin tuft of fur at the end of his tail around his fingers. Joxling rounded on him as well, expression determined, all her fur on end.

“You think so too,” she said. “You two probably won’t be able to sail back there by yourselves now. You’re not managing.”

“Do you really think so, Moomintroll?” asked Snufkin, arms folded.

“Um. Well, we aren’t as young as we once were,” he said. “Remember what hard work it was to plant the crops for this year? We were both exhausted and could barely move afterwards.”

“We’ll still have enough food.”

“Maybe,” he said, but he didn’t sound certain. “But what about next year? It’s only going to get harder.”

“I just think, you’re both best off here, and to not get into so much trouble,” said the Joxling, “for whatever time you have left.”

They all fell silent at that, Snufkin’s gut clenching. Moomintroll’s ears were pressed back, and he pulled out a tuft of fur from his tail. Yet there was a knowing look in his eyes that Snufkin didn’t much like, and he knew instinctively that it had been weighing on his mind too.

“That’s a morbid thing to say,” said Snufkin, because one of them needed to say something.

“Sensible though,” she muttered, shoving her hands in her pockets and staring down at the floor.

Snufkin had nothing to say to that. Just because something was sensible didn’t mean one wanted to hear it.

“I’m going home, we have a lot to sort out,” she said, rubbing at her temples as though she had a foreboding. “I’m sorry to snap.”

“Planning a wedding is stressful, I’m sure,” said Moomintroll sympathetically. “Just – go and get some rest, dearie, we’ll be fine.”

Joxling gave Snufkin another look, this time just exhausted rather than angry.

“I’m going for a rest myself,” he said bluntly, and went out the door.

****

When Mamma passed, Snufkin thought, for a moment, that Moomintroll would manage. He had been so strong when Pappa got sick and passed, after all. And Mamma was so much older – she had lived such a full, long life, almost as long as any moomin could hope to live.

At first, it seemed he was. He arranged everything briskly, buried the body and informed the family. He waved away questions about how he was doing, smiling all the while.

That was, until it came time to tear down Moominhouse. Nobody lived in it any more, and a moominhouse was not meant to go uninhabited. Suddenly, Moomintroll’s efficiency slowed to a crawl. Every bit of bric-a-brac was examined, from every angle, agonising over whether it should be kept or disposed of. Moomintroll’s old room and Mamma’s room remained untouched, even when the kitchen and living room had been thoroughly emptied, ready to be dismantled.

The unmaking of a moominhouse was meant to be a quick process. The whole family was meant to come together and take it apart, taking what they needed for their own homes and giving away the rest. Yet Moomintroll kept finding excuses for family and friends to stay away. There was always something that needed to be attended to first – some private matter that needed to be dealt with.

The worst was his painting. Though they were as splendid as ever, they’d all turned bleak and half-finished, smears of mournful colour, fading into pencil sketches. Eventually Moomintroll couldn’t even seem to start a new painting. He would set up the easel and stare at it a long time, and then Snufkin would return to find him in bed, the canvas as blank as it had been that morning.

One night, Snufkin left his tent to see the light still on inside, despite the black autumn all around them. The rope bridge, frayed after all the years, swayed out of the window. For the first time in a long while, Snufkin climbed up it, surprised by the softness that had built up in his arms over the years.

The light was on, a blurred sketch on the easel, but Moomintroll was in bed, face towards the wall, blankets bunched tight in his paws. His shoulders were shaking.

There was nothing he could say. All the platitudes had been said, a million times, and Snufkin was sick of them. What good was it, to be told a life had been good or long or happy? It was lost all the same.

Moving slowly and quietly, Snufkin dimmed the lamp and crawled into bed with him, pressing as close as he could and saying nothing at all.

****

Snufkin couldn’t sleep. Moomintroll came to check on him, leaving a bowl of fish soup outside of his tent when he refused to come out. After he was certain Moomintroll was asleep, he crawled out and sat cross-legged, eating the cold soup with the chunk of bread Moomintroll had left for him.

It came as no surprise that the Herring Gull was waiting for him.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting some of this,” he said through a mouthful of bread. “I’m sorry, but I’m much too hungry to share.”

The Herring Gull looked out across the Lonely Mountains.

“You’re quiet,” he said. “Did you scream yourself hoarse last night?”

He followed the Herring Gull’s gaze, looking at the jagged line of the mountains against the night sky. One couldn’t see the stars as clearly as one could from their island. Snufkin was hard pressed to pick out anything more complex than the Big Dipper or Orion’s Belt.

Snufkin looked down at the dregs of soup in his bowl and put it down.

“Fine. Here,” he said, pushing the last of the soup towards the Herring Gull. It ignored him.

“Not hungry after all?” he asked. “Unusual, for a gull, you know. Why do you keep hanging around here, if not for the food?”

The Herring Gull turned away from him and lifted its wings.

“Wait!” said Snufkin, getting to his feet, that feeling of dread from the other night snapping around him. “You can’t fly off yet. Not before I understand why you’re here.”

The Herring Gull folded its wings back into itself, but paid Snufkin no heed. It trotted off, disappearing into the night. Snufkin watched it go, biting down hard on his lower lip.

He looked back at the cottage, where all the lights were off. The breeze blew through him, much too cold for a summer evening in the Valley.

Not thinking about why, he wandered back into the cottage, into the little bedroom. Moomintroll was still under the covers, just his ears poking out from under the quilt. He paused by the bed, looking at him. There was not a single sound coming from him, not even his little snores, and no movement, not the steady rise and fall of his breath.

The dread in Snufkin’s chest surged up, to his throat, and he blinked, vision blurring.

“Snufkin?” muttered Moomintroll, sleepily reaching out a paw. Snufkin breathed out and climbed under the covers with him, taking the offered paw, still warm, pulse beating through it. Now he looked, carefully, it was clear as day that Moomintroll was breathing. The silly troll had fallen back to sleep almost immediately. Perhaps he had never really woken up.

Moomintroll’s fur was grey almost all over these days, almost the colour of a sheep’s wool. When it had first started darkening, Moomintroll had done nothing but bemoan the loss of his beautiful white pelt, sulking worse than Snorkmaiden could ever hope to. It was thinner now too. The end of his snout was pink, where his skin showed through. It made him look fragile. Snufkin had never really noticed that before.

Snufkin cupped the end of his snout with his paws. Moomintroll twitched, eyes fluttering open, gaze struggling to focus on Snufkin without his glasses. He smiled a touch when he finally recognised him.

“Come in for the night?” he asked drowsily.

“It’s cold,” he said. Moomintroll only hummed, nodding.

“To us it is,” he replied.

There it was again.

“You think we should stay,” said Snufkin softly.

“Yes. I’m sorry. We should,” he said, closing his eyes. “For whatever time we have left, as she said.”

He said it as though it was a joke, but it made Snufkin feel sick to his stomach.

It was all well and good to say that, he thought, but it wouldn’t be _we_ , would it? It would be one, and then the other, and there would be a space in between that didn’t bear thinking about.

Moomintroll was asleep again, snoring gently, his grip on Snufkin’s paws slackened. Snufkin took his paws back, his heart beating so hard it felt as though it was shaking his whole body.

The sensible thing to do would be to sleep. The sensible thing to do would be to come back to the same bed every night and sleep, waking up the next morning, until finally one of them didn’t.

Snufkin got up and headed out to the back garden. The Herring Gull was waiting for him on the eyes bright in the darkness, standing in the gap Snufkin had torn in the fence. With no pack, or even any shoes on his feet, Snufkin walked through it, and followed the path into the mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't intend to write an extended 'the gang go to Betty's Tea Room' scene but there you go.
> 
> Also in my head old!Snorkmaiden has the exact same energy as the old lady from the Aristocats, and it is very important to me you know this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof, another long one. More warnings for discussion of death/grief/mourning. I think this is a bit more cheerful than the last though.

“Where are you going?” asked the Herring Gull.

Over and over again, the Herring Gull asked. No matter how Snufkin ignored it, it followed him on its two flat feets, crying out over and over:

“Where are you going? Where are you going?”

“Oh, you’re a pain,” snapped Snufkin. “What business is it of yours?”

The Herring Gull fell quiet, feet slapping against the hard rock. Snufkin shivered, hugging himself tighter, wishing he’d paused to grab his coat, or at the very least his shawl.

“What do you think you will find?” asked the Herring Gull.

“I think I like you better just screaming. And you know what? Sometimes I miss when all creatures could talk,” said Snufkin, his bare feet aching against the grit and stone of the mountain path. “Used to be that an earth-worm could wish your mother well, when I was a boy.”

The Herring Gull did not respond, but he could hear its steady footsteps following him. The wind was gentle tonight, but it cut through Snufkin and he pressed his arms tighter around himself, wishing he’d paused to grab his bigger coat. Perhaps this would encourage his fur to grow in thicker – it had been growing sparse and straggly these days.

“Perhaps they still talk, but nobody listens properly,” he said, taking another step forward, and then another. A mountain walk was only that, after all – one step, and then another, and then another. When had it gotten so difficult?

“Or,” continued Snufkin, “perhaps they never had much useful to say. You don’t seem to. Maybe I only thought they did because I was little and silly and thought everything important.”

“Where are you going?” asked the Herring Gull again.

“A walk, that’s all, silly creature,” he said. “I used to walk all the winter. I would walk up these mountains and down the other side, and then I would walk and walk until I was somewhere I’d never been. When the snow began to thaw, I walked back. That was how it was for a long time.”

The Herring Gull made a shrill noise, something like a laugh.

“Laugh at me again and I’ll pull out your tail-feathers,” he warned it. The Herring Gull, in the way of gulls, only laughed louder.

“Well, if you’re going to laugh, I’m going to keep talking,” continued Snufkin stubbornly, pausing to snap a branch from a nearby tree. He rested against it – it made a miserable walking stick, but it was better than nothing. He pushed himself another few steps forward. “An old man deserves to talk as much as he likes.”

Around him, the sky was beginning to lighten. Down in the Valley, busy people would already be stretching and rising, ready to start their busy day, filled with such stuff and nonsense.

“I haven’t been on my winter travels in a long time. I never decided to stop,” he said, and then looked back to give the Herring Gull a stern eye. “Let me make that very clear, I never decided to stop. I simply never again made the decision to go.”

“It’s the same.”

“It is not, in the least. Not that I expect you to understand,” he said, shaking his head at the small-mindedness of gulls. “For you, food from a willing or unwilling hand is the same, isn’t it?”

The Herring Gull laughed.

“The same!”

Snufkin laughed, the movement rough in his chest, and he coughed, leaning against his stick.

“Yes, I suppose I was much the same. What is one melon from a field of many, I always asked, why get so angry about one?” he said. He cleared his throat, wishing he had thought to bring a bit of water with him.

“It’s early for my winter travels this year. But why not leave early?” he said, turning to look at the Herring Gull. “Why keep things the same?”

“The same, the same!” shouted the Herring Gull. It still seemed to be laughing at him, though he couldn’t figure out why.

“Yes, yes,” sighed the Snufkin. He paused – he was certain there was a stream nearby. Breathing in the mountain air, he strained his ears, closed his eyes…there! The faint burble and fresh scent of water. Following it, he turned the corner to find a little stream trickling down the mountain. He crouched, cupping it in his paw, and took a few long drinks. How different it was to the water from their well on the island, or from the tap in that cottage!

He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his paw. The Herring Gull caught up with him and jumped over the stream, watching him from a rock on the other side.

“Moomintroll will be fine,” he told it. “He’s had practice. He waited for me every year, you know? From when we were very small, I would go and he would stay and he would wait.”

“Why?”

“I suppose he thinks a great deal of me,” he said, and shook his head. “Don’t ask me why. I’ve never been able to puzzle it out. I only waited for him once and I could hardly stand it.”

He hopped over the stream but cried out as his paw hit the other side, slamming his stick down to stop himself crumpling entirely. The Herring Gull regarded him unsympathetically. Gripping his stick tight between both poles, he pulled himself up to standing height, trembling all over, his hip throbbing hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“Oh, don’t ask if I’m alright or anything,” he snarled at the Herring Gull through gritted teeth.

A spiteful thing to say, really – one couldn’t expect a gull to care. It was simply not in the nature of gulls. He supposed this was not a typical gull, however.

“Funny creature, following me this far,” he said. “I’m not sure how I ever inspire such loyalty.”

He walked further, finding a small rock to rest on, sinking down to sit. He looked back. The Valley was still so close – he could even see the little thumb-print of the cottage in the green. Surely he had walked further than that?

“A snufkin wanders, that’s what it means to be a snufkin. I never decided to stop,” he said, quietly, “I simply never went again.”

He wrapped his arms around his knees and his tail around himself, trying to pull all the warmth he had into himself. It was so dreadfully cold for a summer morning.

“Why?” cried the Herring Gull.

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I feel too tired for it,” he said, burying his face in his arms, finding some comfort in the warmth and darkness there, the familiar scents clinging to his sleeves, of fur and lilacs. “These days I find I just want to be warm and comfortable. I wonder if that’s a betrayal of myself.”

Snufkin could imagine his younger self – energetic and curious and interested in everything, always wandering and never settling. He could imagine the disdain the little creature would have for him now, this old creature who wanted his island and his house and his moomin.

The Herring Gull pecked at his paws. He swatted it away.

“I always used to want things to always be different, and now I want them to stay the same,” he said. “Funny, isn’t it?”

“It won’t!” shouted the Herring Gull, sounding quite delighted with the idea. “It won’t.”

“Oh yes. I know. One day I may wake up in the same bed, but half of it will lie cold,” he said, swallowing. “It wouldn’t be frightening, if I knew I would be the one leaving. I’ve always been better at leaving than being left behind.”

The wind blew through him and Snufkin curled up tighter. He couldn’t retain his own warmth as well as he used to.

“I’ll sleep for a while,” he said. “Perhaps that’s all I need.”

The Herring Gull said something else, but Snufkin couldn’t make it out – it sounded only like the nonsense cries of a wild animal.

Cold all the way through, Snufkin lay very still and tried not to dream.

***

The strange thing about the lilac bushes they planted was that they bloomed far longer than lilac bushes should. Lilacs usually only lasted the spring, the flowers wilting away as the weather warmed.

They did not bloom all year. Not naturally. No lilacs could do that. But they lasted, even as the spring turned to summer, they bloomed and covered where Moominhouse had once stood.

Of course, nobody else knew that Moominhouse used to be there. That hill had another name, one that was written on maps and on signs, and that was what everyone called it. Few remembered the blue house that once stood there, even fewer remembered the family who had once lived there.

But everyone admired the lilacs.

And that was something.

***

Moomintroll was used to waking up to Snufkin not in bed. He was such a particular creature, after all. While these days he tended to lie in more often than not, he would occasionally go out to fish or tend the plants early, or just walk around the rockpools observing the little creatures that lived there.

So, Moomintroll thought little of it when he woke the next morning to find the bed half-empty. Snufkin seemed to be having trouble with the little cottage – he didn’t much like houses, and only seemed to make exception for ones he built himself. He probably crawled back into his tent for the morning. Or went for a walk down to the river. Even at his old age, Snufkin loved to wander. And wonderfully, he now even loved to come home.

Thinking nothing of it, Moomintroll turned the radio on and started making breakfast. Joxling had gave him some of the eggs she gathered from her chickens. Funniest thing, how these days people seemed to view getting fresh eggs as something so special. Either way, Snufkin would smell the food and come running. He always did, just like his father or his sister.

Tail swishing along to the music, Moomintroll sliced some bread and toasted it, stir-frying greens and searching the cupboards to see if there was any sriracha. He couldn’t stand the stuff, but Snufkin liked it on his eggs.

Everything was plated, and there was still no familiar footsteps stomping towards the cottage, nobody playing harmonica or whistling to himself. Not even pipe smoke drifting in through the open window.

“Fine thing, letting me eat breakfast on my own,” he muttered, and put the plates at the table. He went out, where Snufkin’s tent stood, a flimsy old yellow thing, stitched over so many times that Moomintroll wondered if it was really the same tent he’d used when they first met. He had been much smaller then, and almost sillier. Almost.

“Get up, you! Your lovely partner has made you breakfast and you’re nowhere to be seen,” he said, prodding the flaps of the tent with his cane.

They parted, and Moomintroll saw inside. There was nothing. No familiar lump under the covers, nobody sitting carving a chunk of wood or polishing his mouth-organ. Just rumpled blankets and a lantern burning low. Wheeling about, almost tripping over his own two feet, Moomintroll looked about. His eyes weren’t what they used to be, but he would pick out the familiar shape of Snufkin anywhere.

He returned to the cottage. Snufkin’s boots were still on the front step, muddy and with their usual musty scent. The green coat was a rumpled lump slung across the arm of the sofa. His phone was still on its charger, clearly untouched since Moomintroll had plugged it in.

“It is important not to panic,” he told himself, but it had been so long since Snufkin had disappeared like this. Almost a whole lifetime since he did it without leaving a note – and even then, Moomintroll had barely noticed, Pappa sweeping them all up and off to that lighthouse like he did.

Yet it hadn’t been too long since the Joxter had vanished. It was his way, Snufkin had said, when it happened. There was no doubt in either of their minds the man was long gone, at his age, and with all the time that passed. Yet the coldness of it – leaving without a note, without a goodbye, without as much a word of warning – left Moomintroll fizzling over with anger. He could barely believe that that man would do that to his son, when he had spent so little time with him as it was.

Snufkin had shrugged, his gaze very distant, pipe drooping out of his mouth and paws clutched tight around himself.

“I suppose he wanted to be alone for it,” he had said, toneless.

Moomintroll suddenly felt very sick.

In the bark garden, amongst the weeds and the uneven grass, were a trail of paw prints, small but steady and utterly unmistakable. Moomintroll followed them with his eye, seeing how they went past the fence and then up, high into the Lonely Mountains.

***

There was somebody there, somebody talking and prodding at him. He was curled up so tight in on himself, tucked into a little stone by the river, a hermit crab in its shell, at the floor of an ocean that had dried up. To uncurl himself would be to lose that hardness, that safety.

The voice was insistent, and there was a screaming, or a laughing, and more prods and snaps at him.

He opened an eye.

A snufkin was crouched beside him, dressed all in green with the traditional hat, an orange feather tucked into his cap. For a startling second, Snufkin thought he was looking at himself. At least, at himself when he was a child – small and silly in a hat too big for him, unable to keep himself out of other people’s business.

“Hey, dude, are you okay?” said the other snufkin, in a voice completely unlike his own.

It was the cold shock of this that made Snufkin wake up, uncurling.

Watching all this from the other snufkin’s lap, the herring gull let out of a high laugh.

“Man, that was _terrifying_ ,” said the other snufkin. “You wereso still, and you felt _freezing_! I was sure you were dead there.“

Snufkin then noticed the blanket draped around him, the small campfire set up and crackling nearby. He sat up properly, looking about as though dazed. The other snufkin didn’t seem to mind, and simply sat stroking the herring gull with a paw.

“Well, never mind all that! We’ve met now and you seem fine!” said the other snufkin cheerfully, before sweeping off their hat in a bow. “I’m Snufkin!”

“So am I, as it happens,” grumbled Snufkin, reaching for his hat and put it on. The other snufkin gasped at the sight, paws going to their face.

“Woah, seriously!? You are?” said the other snufkin, leaning close enough to be uncomfortable, eyes blown very wide. “And you’re the oldest snufkin I’ve ever seen in my _life_!”

Looking more closely now, the other snufkin didn’t much resemble him, come to think of it. They were tall, for one, with lank black fur and huge amber eyes. The lapel of their green coat was covered in little badges, some with symbols or funny sayings, one with a rainbow, another with pink and blue stripes. Most different was their tail. Unlike the little tail Snufkin had tucked under his clothes, this snufkin had a long, striped tail, rather like a lemur’s, that kept flicking to-and-fro as they stared at Snufkin. They looked more like a cross between a misabel and something else, rather than a mymble and a joxter. Of course, Snufkin wasn’t about to pry. Rudeness aside, there would be no point - a snufkin was not half one thing and half another; a snufkin was a snufkin.

“You’re lucky my friend came and found me, dude!” said the other snufkin, before Snufkin - or, he supposed, Snufkinmorfar, as he ought to be - as much as had a chance to breathe.

“Your friend?” asked Snufkinmorfar.

The other snufkin grinned and cuddled the herring gull, as though it was tame and sweet as a canary.

“I call her Pellura,” they said cheerfully. “We find each other sometimes. We’re friends! But she only talks at night. Interesting thing about herring gulls, isn’t it, that they only talk when it’s dark out and nobody else is around? I think they like being mysterious. Although you wouldn’t think, how much they love screaming and making a fuss during the day! Just the other day, I saw a woman eating an ice cream cone and a gull swooped right down and stole the whole scoop from her! Oh man, she looked so funny with the cone in her hand, I just laughed, even though it was mean, and –“

“Please, yes,” said Snufkinmorfar, suddenly certain this silly little creature would chatter away if left to their own devices. “I’m very grateful for your help, but –“

“What are you doing out here anyway?” asked the other snufkin, still sitting too close, staring at him.

Snufkinmorfar shifted away, and the other snufkin’s expression crumpled.

“Sorry, I’m not trying to be rude,” he said, but couldn’t quite look away. “I just – you know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of us…your age? Even in films and on TV and in books, we only ever show up if we’re still young, y’know, like we stop existing after a bit. And, uh, guess a lot of us don’t – oh, but that’s such a gloomy thought! After all, _you’re_ here!”

“I don’t travel much anymore,” replied Snufkinmorfar, suddenly defensive. The other snufkin did not seem at all phased, only nodded.

“So you live in one place?” they said in wonder, as though it never struck them as being an option.

“Mostly,” said Snufkinmorfar, embarrassed. The other snufkin only looked at him in awe.

“So that’s an option…” they said quietly, as though they had just been given a sacred piece of information. They looked up, tail curling and swishing.

“By yourself?” they asked eagerly. “Or with other snufkins?”

Snufkinmorfar gave the child a careful look.

“With my husband,” he said finally. The other snufkin broke out into a delighted grin, staring at Snufkinmorfar as though he was the most fantastic thing he’d ever seen.

“Woah, so – wait!” said the other snufkin, so abruptly that Snufkinmorfar jumped. “You didn’t tell me what you were doing out here! What’s up, dude, you shouldn’t be out here by yourself with no shoes in the middle of the night! You’re like, ancient!”

“Thank you for the reminder,” he said dryly.

“Sorry, I just can’t stop thinking about it.”

“You’ve said.”

“It’s just – I dunno, it’s kind of amazing,” he said, still staring. Snufkinmorfar began to feel embarrassed with all this attention, although he couldn't help but be a little pleased, too.

“You’ll be just as old as me one day, it’s not that interesting,” he said. “Now are you going to chatter, little one, or are you going to help me up?”

The other snufkin looked momentarily stunned before getting to their feet, removing the herring gull from their lap. Offering their arm, they helped Snufkin to his feet, passing him a stick to steady himself with. Despite his best effort, he grimaced and winced with pain.

“I think you need a doctor,” said the snufkin.

“What sort of snufkin sees a doctor?” he said, clutching his hip.

“The sensible kind?” they replied. At Snufkinmorfar’s blank stare, they rubbed the back of their head.

“Man, don’t look like that,” they said. “I get a check-up every three months. And I’m probably in _way_ better shape than you. No offense.”

The other snufkin stared at him a long time, but then seemed to give up, shaking their head, tail curling around their waist.

“Ok, which way you headed?”

“Excuse me?”

“Please, I’m not leaving you here by yourself. At least let me get you where you were going.”

Snufkinmorfar would love to argue that he was just fine, thank you very much. But he was sore, and he was tired, and he wanted to see Moomintroll desperately, as frightening as that was. And, besides that, the other snufkin was looking at him so desperately, it made him wonder how long it had been since they’d had companionship.

“Alright,” said Snufkinmorfar, and the way the child lit up was so familiar, he swore he’d seen it before.

***

Snufkinmorfar let the other snufkin support him on the walk back, putting an arm around the child’s shoulders. The child was stronger than they looked– Snufkinmorfar supposed living independently with all one owned on one’s back would do that to a child. He had been much the same when he was small.

They were beginning their descent down the path to the little walled garden behind the cottage, when two figures approached them. One, a scrawny joxter in a t-shirt and jeans, the other a wrinkled moomin walking with a cane.

Snufkinmorfar wanted to launch himself down the mountain path, throwing down his pack and running to him like he used to, but his hip hurt terrible and the rough ground was uneven beneath his trembling ankles. Moomintroll moved a bit faster, Joxling catching onto his arm, but he was still slowed by his knee and cane.

“Where have you _been_?” demanded Moomintroll, furious, but Snufkin didn’t care. He just threw his arms around Moomintroll’s neck, burying his face in his fur. After a stunned second, Moomintroll wrapped his arms around, him, his paws shaking terribly.

“I thought you’d left,” said Moomintroll finally, voice very quiet and tight. At that, Snufkin thought of Moomintroll, lying very still under the sheets, and choked back a sob.

“I thought the same of you,” he muttered. He heard Moomintroll’s breath catch and right away he knew Moomintroll understood. Had probably been holding the exact same fears and thoughts. How silly of them, to assume the other didn’t understand. They always had, after all.

“Silly mumrik! Daft old man!” snapped Moomintroll, sounding too teary and relieved to be all that angry, and squeezed him tighter.

They hadn’t lost each other today, at least. Not today, not now.

But not long, Snufkin thought. It would happen, and every day brought it closer, and running would do no good.

But not now.

“Urgh, do you two do anything but _sob_ over each other?” snapped a tiny voice, harsh as sandpaper. They sprung apart to find Little My approaching them in a wheelchair, the spokes decorated with colourful ribbons and lights.

“Little My?” said Snufkin, eyes wide.

“Uh-huh. Joxling and Snorkmaiden were picking me up when Moomintroll called with another one of your dramas,” she said. “Ridiculous! When will you ever calm down!”

Snufkin paid no heed and bent down to hug her.

“Get off me, you stinky old fishmonger! I’ll bite you!” she shouted, slapping him away. Behind them was a little giggle – Snufkin jumped. He’d quite forgotten about the other snufkin. They stood a while away, laughing into their sleeve. As soon as everyone’s attention turned to them they went quite red and looked away, fidgeting.

“Who are you then, dearie?” said Moomintroll gently.

“Oh, uh, I’m Snufkin,” they said.

Moomintroll looked at Snufkin, expression narrowed with concern.

“This isn’t another one you want us to take in, is it?” he said sternly. “I don’t think I have the energy to be running around after a little one any more.”

“No, what, dude, I don’t want to be adopted!” squeaked the little snufkin, throwing up their paws. “My friend Pellura – she’s a herring gull, you know, and a very clever one, but she’s wandered off – came and found me and brought me to Snufkinmorfar and he was slumped over and looked dead so I put a blanket around him and warmed him up and you know what, he came back around and. Uh. Wait. Dude. Are you his husband?”

Snufkin suddenly felt a bit embarrassed, wondering if all little snufkins were so tactless, but Moomintroll seemed to soften right away.

“Well, we could never quite make it official,” he said kindly. “But I’m glad to have him back either way. Why don’t you come in for a bit of tea and cake?”

“I couldn’t impose!” said the other snufkin, eyes going very wide.

“Oh, it’s quite impossible to impose on a moomin, I promise you!” said Moomintroll cheerfully.

“That’s true, they’re complete pushovers,” sneered Little My.

The other snufkin was fussed inside the cottage. It was now full of people – Snorkmaiden had laid out a fabulous spread of tea, biscuits, and cakes, while Little My’s niece pottered about, cheerfully whistling and gathering up jars of jam. The Senior Park keeper sat awkwardly on the sofa, balancing a cup of tea on his knee, and even more awkwardly leapt to his feet when they came back in.

“See, told you they’d be fine, they always are!” said Snorkmaiden, although her laugh was a little forced. She thrust cups of tea at them and started to slice up the remains of the cake Moomintroll had baked the other day. The little snufkin was fussed into a chair and given lemonade, tea, cake, jam and bread, and anything else Moomintroll could get his paws on. They merely sat stuttering out thanks and apologies, looking very wide-eyed and overwhelmed.

Snufkin decided to leave the little creature to it. It did a child good to be fussed over, now and then. Especially when it happened so seldomly.

He looked about the little bungalow, which had suddenly became busy and messy and, for the first time, almost felt like a home. Sitting on the couch was the Senior Park Keeper, and next to him wasLittle My’s Niece, who was insisting that she had been a park keeper abroad for several years (she had inherited her mother’s penchant for fibbing). On his other side Little My herself, who was stubbornly attempting to steal the keys from his belt, despite his best efforts to keep his possessions alone. Snufkin decided they were all much too preoccupied.

By the door, the Joxling stood alone, her arms folded and her gaze set on the ground. Still balancing with the stick he’d carried, he wandered over to her.

“I suppose you’re upset at me again,” he said.

She sighed, shaking her head, tip of her tail whipping back and forth.

“I shouldn’t have said something so horrible,” she said. “It must have been a scary thing to hear.”

“It was,” he admitted. “You weren’t wrong, though. I apologise for being stubborn.”

“It’s in your nature,” she said quickly. He frowned.

“No, don’t accept that from people,” he said. “One doesn’t always need to act on their worst nature.”

She looked up at that.

“They don’t?”

“Of course not. It’s choices that matter, silly girl. Choices,” he said, nodding as though this was some great piece of wisdom he’d held for years, rather than something he’d made up on the spot.

The Joxling cracked a smile at him, the way she used to when she was little and scared of thunderstorms or beetles or wind or whatever else had terrified her that day, but Snufkin had managed to make her giggle over something silly.

“See, I may want to be as stubborn as a mule and twice as unpleasant, but it doesn’t mean I have to,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “Speaking of which…there’s a favour I’d like to ask you. Before the wedding, if it can be done.”

“Well that’s worrying,” she said, giving him a wry smile.

“I’m not going to ask you to do anything illegal,” he scoffed. The Joxling gave him a searching look, clearly not believing a word of it.

“Are you sure?”

He gave her a sheepish smile, paw going to his hip.

“Oh, I wish. Instead…I think I need to visit a doctor,” he said. “Could you drive me?”

***

Visiting a medical professional, it turned out, was not as frightful as Snufkin was expecting. The doctor – a rather cheery little fillyjonk woman – seemed rather appalled that Snufkin had never been, relying on a moomin woman’s potions and the expertise of random road-side witches his entire life. Aside from that, she mentioned that he was in splendid shape for a creature of his age. He was given some drug of some kind for the pain in his hip (although when Snufkin asked if there were any remedies he could enjoy in his pipe, Moomintroll had hidden a laugh behind a cough and Joxling had buried her face in her paws).

The little pills were cold, sterile, and utterly unexciting. Not at all like the sort of potions Mamma would brew, or the fanciful remedies Snufkin whipped up from herbs, salt water, and moon-bathed mushrooms. 

They were, however, very effective. That much, Snufkin had to begrudgingly admit. He wasn’t that sure about the funny stretches she advised he do, but he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to give them a try.

Joxling’s wedding preparations were going much as expected – which is to say, they were one disaster after another. The worst seemed to be when the flower company finally took back the incorrect delivery but did not provide any substitute. This reduced her to tears at the kitchen table, moaning about forebodings and curses and other things joxters complained of when distressed.

The Senior Park Keeper made stern phone calls that produced nothing. Moomintroll’s gentle fussing was as ineffective as Snufkin’s advice she not take such material things so seriously. Little My’s demands she pull herself together made matters only worse. The little snufkin just babbled away about a wedding they attended which used tissue paper flowers, which was utterly unhelpful.

It was Snorkmaiden, really, who saved the day.

“Well, why don’t we just pick our own flowers,” she said sensibly. “A few sprigs of lilac and a bit of ribbon, and you have a lovely little centrepiece, just like that.”

With the air of one in her element, she went and picked a sprig of lilac, took a length of white ribbon from around her tail, and tied a neat little bow on it, keeping it in place with a little silver hairpin. It looked very pretty for something thrown together so quickly.

Joxling wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“It’s pretty,” she said, sniffing a bit feebly.

Moomintroll and Snufkin exchanged an amused look. Their side of the family _was_ prone to melodrama.

“Of course it is! We can easily make your bouquet like that too,” said Snorkmaiden, grinning. “We’ll need a few more though.”

“We can all help,” said Moomintroll. “Splendid way to spend the afternoon, I say!”

Moomintroll was right. It was a warm summer day, and to spend it picking the last of the lilac blooms – well, Snufkin could hardly think of a better way to spend it.

The little snufkin and Joxling made a game of it, racing to see who could pick the most in five minutes, then two minutes, then one. Little My zoomed around in her chair and filling her basket with the biggest sprigs of lilac she could find. More than once, she ‘accidentally’ drove over Moomintroll’s tail, until he finally lost his temper and chased her around, swatting at her with his cane, her cackling all the while.

Snufkin and Snorkmaiden let them get on with it, quietly picking together. They did not need to talk to enjoy their time together, which Snufkin was always grateful for.

“I think she would have liked this, you know,” said Snorkmaiden eventually. Snufkin looked across at her, inspecting a sprig of lilac between her paws. There was no need to say who she was.

“Yes, I think she would,” he agreed. It wasn’t a sad thought, strangely. Or at the very least, it was a warm sort of sadness. The type one would hold for just a second longer than they needed to, comforted by the weight of it.

“Are you doing alright, by the way?” asked Snorkmaiden, “After that whole…”

She made a vague gesture with her paws and she laughed, still embarrassed.

“Oh, I think so,” he said. “As I can be. Just. Had a lot on my mind.”

“When do you not! But it’s been a while since you acted up like that,” she said, laughing. “It’s nice, in a way.”

“Nice?” he asked, tilting the brim of his hat back with a thumb. She moved towards him, thrusting an armful of lilac into his basket.

“Yes. You’re still the same old Snufkin, aren’t you?” she said.

“I could say the same about you,” he said with a chuckle.

The continued picking, the gentle clipping of their scissors, the distant sounds of Little My and Moomintroll bickering over something, Joxling and the little snufkin playing and laughing.

“I don’t think I will marry that lad, you know,” she said suddenly.

“You won’t?” he said, surprised.

“Oh, he’s sweet and everything, but I don’t think I need it,” she said, laughing. “Lovely to be asked, of course, but I’m happy as I am.”

“Hm. Are you still going back to Paris, then?” he asked.

“Of course, my animals are there,” she said carelessly. “I can’t leave the dears. I’d be tempted to bring them back here, but there’s a lot of them these days.”

“Hm, not exactly easy to move them, is it?” he said. “I expect they’re settled.”

“Oh, that’s not really it,” she said. “I don’t think they mind where they are, exactly, as long as I’m there. They just _adore_ me, you know.”

He laughed.

“Not a hard thing to do,” he said, and lifted up the basket, now overflowing with lilac. “I think we’ve gathered enough.”

The Senior Park Keeper drove into town and brought back wheels of white ribbon, as well as pretty hairclips and pins and other little knick-knacks, whatever could be bought cheaply and quickly. None of them matched, which he fussed over, but Snorkmaiden waved his concerns away, insisting that the centrepieces being unique would only add to their charm. Looking at their handiwork, some of the arrangements wonky and some of them big and some of them small, but all lovely, Snufkin found he quite agreed.

***

There were a few more disasters to weather before the day. Even after the flowers were sorted, two different catering companies turned up, both quite convinced they were providing (very different) food, and both quite insistent upon payment. And then it turned out the hotel had no booking under their name whatsoever, so there were two very large families to accommodate somewhere or another, as well as a ceremony that had nowhere to go.

When they finally did find somewhere – a few hours before everything was due to take place – Joxling got lost on the way and ended up late. This meant the ceremony took much longer than expected, and a great deal of time was spent watching the Senior Park Keeper stand awkwardly in his most formal robes under the arch. On one side of the room, hemulens muttered to one another in sombre tones, many clutching their pearls. On the other side, a motley crew of mymbles, joxters, snorks, moomins and who knew what else laughed and passed around a flask of whiskey that someone had snuck in in their boot. The hemulens shot them filthy looks, but that only increased their merriment.

It was hard to take seriously, after all – they all knew their Joxling would make her way here sooner or later.

And indeed she did, frantic, out of breath, train of her dresss bundled into her arms, her hat half-falling off her head and flower crown quite bedraggled. Her family cheered. The hemulens tutted. The Senior Park Keeper, however, beamed.

All in all, Moomintroll thought, it had been a splendid day. The two catering companies worked out well, as one provided the refined little foods the hemulens favoured, while the other brought a big tasty buffet for the Joxling’s side of the family. Yes, Joxling had tripped over a little bit on her way up the aisle, but it would hardly be her if she hadn’t. Besides, after Snufkin cut off that awful train, her first dance went off without a hitch.

Snufkin met the Park Keeper’s grandfather, who turned out to be a very traditional park keeper. They absolutely despised each other on sight. And, moreover, they both seemed to immensely enjoy it.

The little snufkin had wandered in at some point and, as snufkins tended to, quickly became the life of the party. They played their little ukulele and sang and danced and made up games for all the children to take part in. Even the younger hemulens seemed delighted, despite the stony disapproval radiating from their elders.

However, it was all a bit much for Moomintroll. He had seen so many grandchildren and children and nephews and nieces and friends-of-family and children-of-friends-of-family (when had Sniff produced so many offspring!?), that he was quite exhausted, and wanted desperately to sit somewhere quiet.

Extracting himself from a terribly boring conversation about the stock market with the Park Keeper's father, Moomintroll wandered off to find somewhere that wasn’t so busy.

As a young man, he could hardly imagine wanting to extract himself from a party for some peace and quiet. Especially when there was more dancing and food and drink to be enjoyed. Perhaps he was just too used to the quiet of Harusaari at this point, the steady wash of the sea on the rocks and cry of gulls.

It had gotten dark already. Even at the height of summer, the days didn’t seem to ever last as long as they used to. After a bit of wandering, Moomintroll found a way outside, finding himself on a wooden decking overlooking the beachfront. There were still a fair few groups out, a few children playing with sparklers down on the sand, a few families walking along the pier together, friends out drinking and eating at some of the restaurants along the way.

Pappa would have probably found it quite fabulous, he thought. At least for a while – he always got restless eventually. Moomintroll supposed that was just the kind of person he had been, for better or worse.

“I suppose you’re right, but I don’t have to like it,” said a familiar voice.

Moomintroll froze, turning to see the comforting outline of Snufkin’s hat against the night sky. Snufkin stood further along the decking, leaning his elbows against the railing, puffing away on that awful pipe of his. Moomintroll couldn’t see who he was speaking to, but he seemed rather deep in conversation.

“It’s sensible, and I’ve never liked being sensible,” continued Snufkin. “I suppose the thing is that no matter how much one keeps moving, there will always be somewhere that’s the last place. A day that’s the last day, a conversation that’s the last one. One can’t help much of it.”

There was a high cry, like the call of a gull, and Moomintroll crept close to find that the person Snufkin was speaking to was a herring gull, standing on the end of the railing, eyeing him closely.

“You know,” said Snufkin. “Looking closely, I can tell there’s not much left in you, either.”

“Is that Pellura?” asked Moomintroll, making Snufkin jump and wheel around to look at him.

“Moomintroll! I thought you were still inside?” he said, going a bit red at being caught talking to a bird. Moomintroll only laughed and settled next to him, knocking their elbows together amiably.

“It was getting a bit noisy for me, I’m afraid,” he said. “I didn’t know you could still speak to birds.”

“One never loses the knack,” replied Snufkin, with a touch of pride, before he gave the herring gull a filthy look. “Although gulls only speak if they feel like it.”

Pellura plucked at her feathers with an unconcerned air.

“She is a very old bird,” he observed.

“Doesn’t make them any less stubborn,” said Snufkin.

“Oh, I know that better than anyone,” he said, grinning. Snufkin looked away, smiling a bit around his pipe.

“I think I owe you an apology,” said Snufkin finally.

“Oh, I think I do too. I knew right away that cottage was for us, and Joxling would want us to stay,” said Moomintroll.

“And you wanted to as well,” added Snufkin. Moomintroll laughed.

“Of course not!” he said, looking back over the sea. “I want to go back just as badly as you do.”

“Probably can’t, now,” said Snufkin, squinting into the distance. Moomintroll knew right away what he was doing – he was trying to find Harusaari somewhere on the horizon. Moomintroll had been trying to do much the same.

It was no good, however. They couldn’t see it from here. Not with their old eyes anyway.

“No,” replied Moomintroll, taking his paw, “probably not.”

Snufkin rubbed his thumb along Moomintroll's knuckles, as though assuring himself he was really there.

“It's not so awful. I like the cottage more now it’s been made a bit more of a mess of,” he said softly. “It can’t stay so neat and boring after a handful of guests.”

“Well. We can try to sail back, if you really want,” said Moomintroll. “I’m sure we could hire a hand to help us over.”

Snufkin was quiet for a long time. Down below, it looked like the little snufkin and some of the other children were leaving the hotel, heading down towards the beach and rolling a barrel of something they almost certainly shouldn’t have with them.

All of them were laughing and shouting and singing, up much too late and drunk much too young and, clearly, having the time of their lives.

“They look like they’re having fun, don’t they?” said Moomintroll, nudging Snufkin. Snufkin leaned over the railing to watch as the children all took turns doing cartwheels. The little snufkin and the little mymble were best at it and were both trying to coach their much less athletic moomin friend to do it.

“Exhausted just watching them,” grumbled Snufkin, but he was smiling. Moomintroll laughed. On the sand, the little moomin tumbled over, prompting the fillyjonk to squeal with horror and the other children to cackle.

It was quickly forgotten, however, and all the children were soon playing another game, the mechanisms of which were lost on Moomintroll completely.

“It’s a silly thing, chasing nostalgia,” said Snufkin finally, breathing out a smoke ring. “I never thought I’d be prone to it.”

“Everyone is,” said Moomintroll fairly.

They stood in silence, watching the children on the beach, letting Pellura wander around beneath their feet, pecking between the floorboards.

“I think,” said Snufkin. “I think if we should stay, we should still go somewhere new.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re in the mood to talk in riddles!” exclaimed Moomintroll with a laugh. Snufkin grinned and shook his head, a spark in his eyes that had been the same.

“No, no, this is an old place but it’s a new place, all at the same time, don’t you see?” said Snufkin, waving his pipe down towards the beach. “Look down there, the shoreline is completely different from when we were boys. If we walked along it, I’m sure we’ll find ourselves somewhere new.”

“What about if we walk the other way?” asked Moomintroll, enjoying the game. Snufkin had that look in his eyes again, like when he was little and delighted by the desolate landscape around him, the black velvet tree and bleak lines of grey.

“I suppose enough has changed here, there’s bound to be things we haven’t seen yet,” he said, but then looked out over the sea with a sigh. “It’s not Moominvalley though, is it?”

“Perhaps not,” said Snufkin. “But there’s bound to be pieces the same and pieces different. Perhaps the old valley is somewhere in the middle of that. If we look hard enough we’ll find it. Perhaps it will be hidden under a silk top hat somewhere.”

Moomintroll burst out laughing, burying his face in Snufkin’s shoulder.

“Have you been drinking?” he asked.

“I haven’t had a drop, dearest.”

“Oh, pet names. You’ve _definitely_ been drinking.”

Snufkin elbowed him, but he was only just holding back a laugh himself.

“I suppose we could walk the whole shoreline and see what’s different,” admitted Moomintroll. “I think it’s too late to do that tonight, though.”

Snufkin sighed.

“As much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. It looks a long walk and I’m rather tired already. What time is it?” he said.

“Nine pm.”

“Good grief,” said Snufkin, tapping out the contents of his pipe with a sigh. “That’s pathetic.”

Moomintroll grinned at him, an idea coming to his mind.

“Oh, what?” asked Snufkin, with no small note of admiration. “You’re always up to mischief when you look like that.”

“I think we should walk down the pier tonight anyway. Let's see if anywhere's open for a crêpe or a glass of wine. Preferably both!” he said. “Then we can try to find Sniff’s old cave tomorrow. See if any of his pearls are still buried there. We’ll walk the whole length of the shore the next day, and find your old hot springs the day after, and then we can find somewhere completely new the day after that.”

“You’re filling our diary very ambitiously,” said Snufkin with a laugh.

“Well why not?” he said. “If we have the day we’ll do it, and if we don’t we won’t.”

“A very simple way to look at a very dark problem.”

Moomintroll shrugged.

“What else can we do?”

Snufkin entwined their fingers together.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, resting his head on Moomintroll’s shoulder. “It does sound good fun, remapping the valley like that. It won’t be so terrible to stay, if we’re doing that.”

“It wouldn’t even be bad if we just spent the rest of our time in the garden together,” replied Moomintroll, thinking of how warm and solid Snufkin was, and how grateful he was for that. How grateful he was for many things.

“I suppose so. There are the rose bushes to tend to, after all,” said Snufkin. “I could finish tearing down that fence.”

“There are things we could grow here we couldn’t on the island, that could be fun,” said Moomintroll, thinking of the extra space, the richer soil, the interesting seeds and plants they could buy. Snufkin huffed a laugh, twisting some of Moomintroll’s fur around his finger, letting it knot and then smoothing it back out.

“It’s a splendid thing, really,” he said suddenly.

“What is?” asked Moomintroll, ears flicking.

“To have had so long together and still not want it to end,” he said, looking away, somewhat embarrassed of himself. “Few people are capable of such loss.”

Moomintroll didn’t reply, just gave his paw a squeeze. Some things didn’t need to be said.

Below them, Pellura let out a squawk. Snufkin raised his eyebrows.

“What is she saying?” asked Moomintroll, who, despite Snufkin’s assertion one never quite lost the ability, had long ago stopped being able to make words out of animal’s noises. He supposed he stopped needing to, with Snufkin so close by so much.

“She’s saying she has to be on her way now,” he said, and pulled Moomintroll to one side. There was an odd smile on his face, a little sad, but more certain now. “We should let her go.”

“Well, if she has business to attend to,” said Moomintroll with a laugh.

The herring gull hopped onto the railing. There was something in her beak.

It could have been a sprig of lilac, which would be fitting. Or maybe it was just a twig. Perhaps it was something even less romantic, like a cigarette butt or a piece of forgotten food. It was too dark to tell.

They didn’t have time to puzzle it out, because she took off with a beat of her wings. They watched her go, not knowing what she had come for, what she had taken, nor where she was going. As with many things, they couldn’t know any of that.

But they could enjoy watching her soar over the sea all the same.

And there is no harm in imagining it was a sprig of lilac, if that is what you like best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Tumblr is @clefairytea, hmu if you wanna talk writing or Moomins. Please take care of yourselves.


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